Reversal of Fortunes: End of (School) Days
by mnfowler
Summary: In this sequel to "The Sunnydale High Massacre," the destinies of Buffy and her friends have been radically changed, but the fight against evil must go on. Mayor Wilkins still plans to conquer the world, but with some surprisingly different allies and enemies. Meanwhile, a troubled substitute teacher finds out that a magick gift can be a curse, too.
1. Chapter 1

"I just think you're trying to scare me off 'cause you're afraid of the competition. Look, Buffy, you may be hot stuff when it comes to demonology or whatever, but when it comes to dating, I'm the Slayer."  
—Cordelia Chase, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , Season II, "Halloween"

Ned hurriedly packed his suitcase. This town was no place for a demon like him anymore, he thought. Mostly because he was about to tick off the wrong people. For all he knew, he already had. Ned had had help, of course, but he was the one who actually bought the books, and buying the Books of Ascension from an obscure Las Vegas bookseller, then smuggling them into Sunnydale under the Mayor's nose was bad enough, but re-selling them to the Slayer and her vampire-friend—Ned paused to reflect that he would never have expected to use those words together in a sentence—but letting them get hold of the books would render his life worthless: it was not a question of whether but when the Mayor would find out what he had done. He could not leave until he had unloaded the books, but he needed to be ready at a moment's notice.

Before the Mayor knew what had happened, Ned wanted to be flying over Katmandu. In an airplane, of course. Ned could not fly on his own; in fact, he had no special powers to speak of. He was much stronger than the average human, but you would not know that to look at his short, wiry physique, comical fringe of chin whiskers, and shaggy mane framing a baldpate. His only features that were truly demonic-looking were the short, blunt horns sticking out of his forehead and his pointed ears. Otherwise he could put on a big, floppy hat and be taken for a guy with a bad complexion. His skin was hideously bumpy from the viewpoint of most humans, but among his own species of demons he was actually regarded as rather handsome. He was still annoyed with the Slayer for making that crack about his complexion, but if she came through with the five grand, he thought, well, five thousand dollars buys a lot of bygones.

Ned froze in the midst of stuffing an extra pair of underwear into his already stuffed suitcase. He sensed an intruder in his run-down hotel room. He turned to see a tall, slim, brunette wearing black leather and lace, standing in front of the open door Ned knew he had locked.

"You're a vampire," said Ned.

"And you're a demon, but it doesn't mean we're not nice people."

"Funny. Earlier tonight another vampire questioned whether I'm people at all."

"That would have been Buffy, the Slayer's friend, at Mercer Cemetery, right? Also a case of the pot calling the kettle a kitchen utensil, her being a demon herself."

Ned tried to stand in front of his suitcase as if to keep the vampiress from seeing it. "How'd you know about that?" he asked.

"The same way I know you're planning to leave town," said Cordelia.

"What do you want from me?"

Cordelia closed the distance between them. "Would you believe that I've seen you around and find you irresistible?" Her eyes widened as she looked deeply into his.

"Really?" he asked.

"Can't you sense how I am drawn to your virile essence?"

"Huh?" he said.

"This isn't working on you, is it?" sighed Cordelia.

"Not a bit," he admitted. "I'd say your vampire magnetism is probably way above average, but it only works on humans."

"Oh," said Cordelia disappointedly.

"But I am enjoying the view," allowed Ned.

Cordelia looked down at her own bust, which was amply exposed dress.

"Oh!" she cried. She grabbed Ned by his collar and picked him up from the floor easily. "How's the view from up there?"

"Not so great," he gasped.

"Where are the Books of Ascension?" demanded Cordelia.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ned pleaded.

"Maybe this will refresh your memory," she said. "Full set, first editions, worn spine on volume four, slight to moderate foxing on most."

"Hey, that's from the…."

"From the invoice, yes," Cordelia said before she snarled and threw the demon onto the bed. "Turn over the books now and I might let you live."

"Why don't I believe that?" he asked.

"Why should you? I'm full of it." Cordelia smiled as she moved in. "I'll tell you what, though. You _can_ believe that if you _don't_ tell me, your death will be extremely slow and painful."

The demon jabbed Cordelia's chin with his left and rolled off the bed. Cordelia went after him and yanked him up, kicking and struggling.

"You have a lot of spunk," said Cordelia. "I like that." She drew Ned's body against hers and embraced him from behind. Then, placing her hands on either side of his head, she twisted it, thereby eliciting a sharp crack from his neck. The lifeless body slumped to the floor at her feet.

"Damn," said Cordelia, "I hope you have the books right here in this room or the Mayor is going to have my hiney in a soufflé." She began a methodical search of the room: under the bed, behind the curtains, even under the sink. But the most obvious hiding place proved to be the right one: in the closet.

Cordelia packed the volumes back in their shipping box and carried the awkward but, to her, nearly weightless load out of the frowsy hotel. Cordelia made herself a note never to be caught dead in this dive again: especially, of course, since dead was the only option for her anymore.

* * *

Dingoes Ate My Baby played loudly. Angel nursed a cup of coffee and looked around the Bronze expecting to see Willow because she dated Oz, but she was not in sight. Guess it's past Willow's bedtime on a school night, Angel thought with a smile.

When the band took a break, Oz went to get a coffee and chatted with his band mates. Angel was vaguely aware of some strain on Oz and Willow's relationship, but he didn't know what to make of it; everyone had been under a strain lately.

Angel had hoped that the loud music would prevent anyone from speaking to him, but during the break a man took the stool next to him. The man was average in height, rather thin and young. His hair was a light brown, his face was, in fact, a frank and open face; he was, however, the oldest-looking young man that Angel had ever seen. He was dressed rather formally for the venue, albeit in a drab and even threadbare suit, although his tie was missing. He was a bit drunk, as well.

"Howard Quillish," he said, offering his hand.

Angel delayed but finally shook it. "Angel," he said.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Angel. I'm a teacher at Sunnydale High. What's your line?"

"Oh yeah?" said Angel with mild curiosity. "Was Buffy Summers in one of your classes?"

"Well, first of all," said Quillish, leaning in a little too close, "are you referring to one of the girls who disappeared after the massacre in the gym?"

"Yeah," said Angel, wishing he had not brought up the subject. He stopped pretending to breathe so that he wouldn't have to smell the alcohol on Quillish's breath.

"Terrible tragedy," said Quillish, staring at his beer. He paused, "But I did have her in a class once. She was one of the nicer kids, actually. I should say, though, I'm not a regular teacher; I'm a substitute."

"Substitute," said Angel. "I'm aware of that strange American custom."

"Strange American…. Are you foreign? You don't sound it."

"I've lived in this country a long time."

"Really? Where'd you grow up?"

"Ireland."

"They don't have substitute teachers in Ireland?"

"Not when I was a lad; if the teacher didn't show up, they just cancelled class."

"Bet you liked that."

"What's not to like?"

"You're right," said Quillish ruefully. "I'd probably like it better that way, too, even if it put me out a job. There are other jobs in the world."

"If you don't mind my asking," said Angel, "why do you substitute teach if you don't like it?"

"Too scared to find my true calling," he said.

"Teaching isn't your true calling?"

"Well, I thought it might be, but it's really hard to get a permanent position, and maintaining any kind of discipline as a substitute is—to say the least—daunting. I don't mind telling you, I dread answering the phone when it rings tomorrow at six a.m. Even more, I dread walking into the classroom they'll assign me to."

Well, just remember," said Angel. "You're in charge."

"Yeah?" said Quillish, eagerly welcoming whatever encouragement might come his way.

"If they act out, call them to the front of the class and give 'em a swat across the keister with a stout switch."

Quillish's eyes widened. "Man, what century did you go to school?"

Mercifully, the band came off of its break and resumed playing loudly; it was impossible for the two men to continue their conversation. At least it was impossible for Quillish, who did not possess the ability of a vampire to hear above the din of a nightclub.

"Listen," said Angel, "I hate to ask you to shove off, but I'm expecting someone."

"Oh, sure. How rude of me to barge in on you."

"Not at all, and I wish you well in your search for your calling."

"Uh, thanks," said Quillish as he slid off of the stool and moved away.

"This seat taken, Mister?" asked a familiar voice.

Without having to look, Angel said, "It is now, Buffy."

"I'll take that as an invitation," she said, sliding onto the stool next to Angel.

"Been out patrolling with Faith again?" Angel asked.

"Yeah."

"How's that going?"

"Surprisingly, OK," said Buffy. "You know, the whole vampire-cooperating-with-Slayer thing takes a little getting used to."

"Yeah, tell me about it," said Angel.

"Who was that guy you were talking with?"

"Said he's a substitute teacher at Sunnydale High. Look familiar?"

"Yeah. Kinda," was all that Buffy could say about the man who was, at that moment walking unsteadily out of the club.

"Mr. Quillish is a real sad sack," Angel told Buffy.

"Yeah," said Buffy, "I kinda recall."

"He's terrified of students because they never obey him."

Buffy just nodded, so Angel changed the subject. "So, where are you staying?" he asked.

"You're probably going to laugh, but remember how you joked that Mom could put a coffin in the basement for me? Well, she actually did put me in the basement, though not in a coffin, just a cot," Buffy giggled. "Don't need a coffin," she continued, "since the whole basement is my coffin. We blocked up the windows. It's kinda cozy. Going a little stir crazy down there, though. You oughta come…." She stopped and left her sentence hanging. "I guess you're not finding this as funny as I thought you would."

"There's nothing funny to me about your unhappiness," said Angel setting down his coffee and looking at her.

"I didn't actually say I'm unhappy, although I can't say I'm euphoric, either. Did I tell you Faith helped me move most of my stuff into the basement?"

"You're really giving up your old room?" asked Angel as it suddenly sank in.

"I can't be in there in the morning light," said Buffy. "So Faith's taken my old room."

There was another long pause. Angel brooded. He remembered the first time he was ever in her room; he recalled the last time, too, and the many in between. Not always good times.

They sat through a long, awkward silence.

"Have you ever heard of something called the Books of Ascension?" Buffy finally asked.

"Can't say I have," replied Angel.

"Well someone offered to sell them to us tonight. I mean, a demon came right up to a Slayer and offered to let us have them for five thousand dollars."

Angel whistled. "Lotta money."

"What's strange is, he told us the Mayor is interested in them."

"I see," said Angel. "If the Mayor is interested, we should be, too."

* * *

Mayor Richard Wilkins III looked up from his desk as Cordelia entered his office. He smiled as he looked at his desk clock: the time was exactly 8 p.m.

"Cordelia, if there is one quality I admire above almost any other, it's punctuality, and you are right on time," he said. Cordelia hardly acknowledged his greeting; indeed, she was frowning. "On the other hand, if there is something I dislike above all else, it's a frown," he added. "I want you to tell me right this minute what I can do to turn that frown upside down."

"Did you know that I ate my parents before I came to work for you?" asked Cordelia glumly.

"I'm aware of that," said Wilkins, "but I had no idea you were still moping about it. You know, you and I have both given up our souls. Technically, of course, I still have mine, but I no longer own it. Makes it feel rather lightly tethered to this mortal coil. Anyway, my point is that a soul can be—what's the term you young people use nowadays?—a real drag.

"I've seen a lot of people die—including people whose deaths I've caused, directly or indirectly—but they don't bother me: least of all the loved ones I've laid to rest. Now, I'm as big a supporter of family values as the next fellow, but I don't see why someone without a soul wouldn't just be singing 'Zippity-Doo-Dah' right about now, even if she had eaten her parents. You've got to buck up, stick out your chest and put the twinkle back in those gorgeous peepers of yours." Mayor Wilkins chuckled gleefully.

Cordelia waved her hands frantically in front of her. "No, no, no," she said. "I'm not upset because I ate them. But, afterwards, I started thinking about all the money Daddy had and whether I was going to get any of it, you know, since I'm an orphan? Then it turns out the IRS had been breathing down Daddy's neck for a while just because he kept forgetting to do his income taxes for the last twelve years. You could say I got to his neck before they did, but the government has accelerated the whole investigation, now, and they've attached everything he owned. I'm not only an orphan; I'm a poor one. Do you know anybody who can do something about estate taxes?"

"Now, now," chided the Mayor. "We all have to pay our taxes to support each and every level of government; I happen to believe in civic duty, but don't you worry about your inheritance; I'm offering you a place at my right hand on the day of the Ascension, and on that day, you will be able to have anything in the world your heart desires."

"Can I have things that are really expensive?" asked Cordelia dreamily.

"Can you? You bet," the Mayor chuckled. "Right now, though, I have an errand for you to do. You might call it a challenge."

"I'm intrigued already."

The Mayor chuckled freely. "That's the spunky Cordelia I've come to cherish." He paused and became serious. "I want you to seduce Angel; see if you can bring him over to our side."

"Hmm, that is a challenge. I've tried before, when I was human—and I got pretty far—but he really likes Buffy. Doesn't think about much else."

Well, something tells me he isn't so happy with her being a vampire."

"Really? How do you know?"

"Like I said: something told me. Can't say what it was; if everyone knew my sources, then I'd have to get new ones."

Cordelia idly swatted at a fly.

"Don't!" the mayor cried, reaching out to stay her hand. "One of my informants," he admitted.

"Talk about a fly on the wall!" Cordelia exclaimed.


	2. Chapter 2

Howard Quillish had gotten the wake-up call he dreaded. He was assigned to take Mrs. Bates' English classes for the whole week. "You're Mrs. Bates today," the new vice-principal, Mr. Wood, had said to him earlier. Having worked for the Sunnydale School District for nearly two years, Quillish had heard that chestnut too many times. He appreciated neither the humor nor the vice-principal's complacent grin while uttering it.

Now it was nearly time for the bell to ring, but Quillish was putting off entering the classroom. He was almost glad for the distraction just provided by the man who had introduced himself as Wesley Windham-Pryce and asked for directions to the library.

At least I am competent to direct a stranger to the library, Quillish thought to himself without much satisfaction.

As the first bell rang, he turned and beheld a woman so stunning in her appearance that he was surprised he had not seen her before stumbling into her. Her skin was darkly chocolate in contrast to Quillish's, which was palest white. She wore a silky orange blouse and well-fitted blue wool suit. She was lithe and tall, towering over the diminutive Quillish.

"Excuse me," said Quillish, "I didn't see you; I must have been lost in thought."

"No, excuse me," she said smiling charmingly. She had a slight foreign accent that Quillish couldn't place. "My name is Abby LaChance. I am a new substitute teacher. Do you know the way to Mr. Salmonen's classroom?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I do, because I substituted for Mr. Salmonen, I think, a couple of months ago, before the massacre, anyway…."

"Massacre?" asked Ms. LaChance, seeming curious but not alarmed. "What sort of massacre?"

"Well, actually," began Quillish, looking around to see who might be listening, "if you had asked anyone else, they probably wouldn't have mentioned it. There are some really scary things that go on in this school. No one likes to talk about them, though. I'd be glad to fill you in sometime, but we both had better get to class. Umm…. Actually, if you go around this next corner, Mr. Salmonen's classroom is the first door on the right."

"Thank you, and I hope to take you up on those scary stories sometime."

"Why, sure. I'd be glad to," said Quillish. She seems like a very nice lady, he thought. "I have to warn you about something, Ms. LaChance: you are about to walk into a very unruly class. Watch out or those kids will eat you alive."

"Thank you for the warning," said Ms. LaChance. She smiled warmly before turning and walking around the corner.

Quillish sighed and walked into Mrs. Bates' classroom.

The boys in the back of the room immediately began to chant, "Sub! Sub! Sub! Sub!" Quillish set his briefcase on the teacher's desk and opened the middle drawer. As he expected, the attendance book and lesson plan were right there. He pulled them out and set them on top of the desk.

"All right!" he called. "Settle down people!" He wrote his name, "Quillish," across the chalkboard in a quick but neat Spenserian hand.

"Sub! Sub! Ha-ha-ha, 'Quillish'! Sub! Sub!" The boys continued chanting, but with difficulty since they were also laughing at his name. A few more students, including a few girls, gleefully joined in the chant.

"Listen up, people!" shouted Quillish. "I'm about to take attendance. You wouldn't want to be marked absent because you couldn't hear, would you?" he pleaded. The chanting continued but soon trailed off into chuckling. Quillish knew that they stopped chanting because they were getting tired of it rather than because he had persuaded them to stop.

"Abbott? Cynthia Abbott?" No one answered. "Is she here?"

Five or six different voices answered "yes" and "no."

"One person answering will be enough."

"Hey, what are you going to teach us today?"

"He's not going to teach anything: he's a sub," said a handsome athletic fellow. Laughter all around.

"OK, what's your name?" Quillish asked the boy who had asked the question about the lesson plan.

"Who? Me? Pete Whitman."

Quillish marked him present. "And you?"

The boy who had answered Pete's question said, "Russ Eckhart." Quillish marked "Eckhart, Russell" present as well. "Hey, what are you writing about me?" asked Eckhart.

"In case you're already lost," said Quillish, "We're still taking attendance." And before Eckhart had a chance to reply, Quillish forged ahead. "Andrew Acevedo?"

"Yo!"

"A simple, 'here' will do," advised Quillish. "David Cameron."

"Present!"

"Hey, you heard the teacher," said Acevedo. "You're supposed to say 'here,' not 'present'." A wave of giggling rolled through the room.

"OK, quiet down." Quillish paused over the next name. "You're going to have to help me with this one. Christopher…ahh…D-u-r-k-a-c-z. Der-kaz?"

Students tittered and Acevedo imitated Quillish's pronunciation of the name, barely under his breath.

"Close," said the bespectacled boy seated directly in front of Acevedo. "But my family happens to pronounce it 'Dure-kah-ch'."

"Hey, Door-catch," called Eckhart. "Catch any doors today?" The class laughed together, loudly.

"All right," said Quillish, "the next person who speaks without being called upon gets sent to the vice-principal."

The class made a unanimous "Ooooh," sound.

"I mean it," warned Quillish.

"Ooooh," they said again. There was more laughter.

"Ow! Hey cut it out!" shouted Durkacz." He stood up and glared at Acevedo.

"Sit down, Mr. Durkacz," said Quillish.

"Mr. Quish!" said Eckhart, waving his hand.

"Quillish," Quillish corrected.

"Yeah, that's it." Eckhart shared a goofy smile with his classmates by turning from side to side; his classmates giggled. "You should send Door-catch to Mr. Wood's office. He talked without raising his hand."

"While you've been talking steadily even though I've never called on you except once to ask your name," Quillish pointed out. "I'm going to write you a note so that you can go to Mr. Woods office and explain yourself to him." Quillish grabbed pen and paper from the desktop and began to write "Russell Eckhart…."

"Knock it off!" cried Durkacz. Quillish looked up in time to see Durkacz turn in his chair and strike Acevedo. It was just a mild rap on the arm, but a daring move considering that Acevedo outweighed him by no less than one hundred pounds.

In the next moment, too many things happened at once for Quillish to account for them all. An eraser slammed against the chalkboard. He turned to see it bouncing off, leaving a thick chalk track on the green board with a cloud of dust floating before it.

Then Acevedo brought Durkacz to the floor with a crash and began punching him in the face. Eckhart led the entire class in a new chant: "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Quillish grabbed the phone to the administration and began to ask for help.

"What's the meaning of this!" shouted a tall, bald black man in the doorway.

Quillish wondered when the door had opened and how long Vice-Principal Wood had been standing there.

By the time Wood's stride brought him to the center of the room, the din had turned to utter silence. Students seemed frozen in space; wary eyes watched the vice-principal, but their bodies were unable to withdraw from compromising positions. Acevedo knelt, fist in mid-air, about to smash the prone Durkacz, who was already bruised and bleeding.

Wood's knees halted within inches of Acevedo's face. "You are so busted, Acevedo," said Wood looking down at him. "Get up and go to my office. Now!"

Acevedo got up and left the room without another word.

"Mr. Quillish, would you be so kind as to call the school nurse? Tell her we have a student whose parents will need to take him to the hospital. Do you know the student's name?"

"Ah, Durkacz," responded Quillish, quite stunned by what was happening.

"Good," said Wood. "Tell Nurse Farrell to call Chris Durkacz's parents."

While Quillish nervously stammered instructions to the school nurse, Wood turned on Eckhart. "You, too. I want to see you in my office."

"What did I do?" whined Eckhart.

Wood walked over to the teacher's desk and picked up the disciplinary form Quillish had been filling in just before the lopsided fight had started. "I have every confidence that Mr. Quillish wrote down your name for a good reason," said Wood. "On your way, Mr. Eckhart. And try tempering your urge to describe your behavior in the best possible light by guessing how long I was observing the class before I opened the door."

Eckhart frowned, collected his books, and left the room.

"I am going to consult briefly with Mr. Quillish in the hall," said Wood to the remaining students. "During that time I trust you will study quietly or, failing that, meditate on the error of your ways."

There was silence except for the sound of books opening and papers shuffling. Wood nodded toward Quillish who followed the vice-principal into the hall. Wood closed the door behind him, peered briefly into the room, and then led Quillish to the lockers lining the opposite side of the hallway.

"So," Wood began, "you've been substitute teaching at Sunnydale for over a year now. Is that right?"

"Yes," said Quillish.

"Seems to me you should be getting the hang of it by now, don't you think?"

"I suppose so."

"You have to be firm with them, Mr. Quillish. The only thing these kids understand is the boot, the bat and the bastinado."

"The what?"

"It's a club used by Turkish prison guards," said Wood quickly. "Perhaps a bit of misplaced levity on my part…. But, look, my point is that you need to brook no foolishness from the second you walk into that classroom until the last student leaves. Whatever you do, they aren't going to take a liking to you. If they don't like you, that might sting at first, but it's far better that they respect you and dislike you than that they disrespect you and still don't like you."

"I see your point," said Quillish.

"I hope so," said Wood. "Now, I think that if you go back in there you'll find that—for the remainder of the period, at least—you'll have very obedient students."

* * *

"Well, no danger of finding those here," Giles was saying.

"You mean vampires?" asked Wesley incredulously.

"No, controlled circumstances," replied Giles off-handedly. Then, seeing Faith come through the library doors, he added, "Good morning, Faith."

Faith slowed her pace as she approached them, her eyes fixed on Wesley. "Who's this?" she asked.

"Wesley Windham-Price, at your service," Wesley announced, almost clicking his heels like a Prussian officer. "And you would be, perhaps, Faith?"

"That's what I just called her," muttered Giles.

Ignoring him, Wesley added, "I have come on a mission from the Watchers Council."

"You my new watcher?" asked Faith. As she spoke, she drew herself up defensively.

"That has not been determined," said Giles, eyeing Wesley cautiously.

"Right," said Wesley, "the Council has only instructed me to evaluate the situation here and report back. A change in personnel would be decided only in the event that my report reflected gross negligence or incompetence on anyone's part." He looked Giles in the eye for the first time.

"Is he evil?" Faith asked Giles.

Wesley did a double take. "Evil?"

"Gwendolyn Post left Faith with an understandably less than trusting attitude toward people claiming to be from the Watchers Council," said Giles.

"Ah, yes," said Wesley. "Well, Mr. Giles checked my credentials—rather thoroughly I might add—but I am glad you are on your toes as well." He smiled and leaned toward Faith. "A good Slayer is a cautious Slayer," he said confidentially.

"So, is he evil?" asked Faith again.

"Not essentially," said Giles.

"I'm glad we've cleared that up," said Wesley. "Now, Mr. Giles was just giving me his version of recent events. I am curious to hear your account of things: what happened in your own words?"

"You mean how Buffy got bit, turned into a vampire, and then got re-ensouled?"

"That pretty much puts it in a nutshell." Wesley nodded. "And what do you make of it all?"

"Wha'dya mean?" asked Faith warily.

"Well, do you think there was anything anyone could have done to prevent it?"

"Yeah," said Faith, looking at Giles.

Wesley saw this and raised an eyebrow. Giles' expression, however, remained one of mild interest. "What do you believe should have been done differently?" asked Wesley.

"Buffy should've stayed in bed that day."

Wesley stood for a moment, at a loss for words. Then he changed the subject. "Mr. Giles tells me that you plan to attend this, ah, school."

"Yeah," replied Faith. "It makes sense if I'm going to be working with Giles here, that goin' to school is a good cover."

"Well, yes, as well as getting what passes for an education in this country; that seems very sensible," said Wesley, "assuming that Mr. Giles will be continuing on as your watcher."

"Assumin' the council wants to keep me a happy Slayer," said Faith, "he better be continuin' on."

Again, Wesley was taken aback by Faith's bluntness. He considered his words carefully now. "I don't feel that we're getting off on quite the right foot," he said.

At that moment, they heard footsteps in the hall and muffled but animated voices approaching the library. All heads turned as the doors swung open.

"Well, let's just see what Mr. Giles says about it," Willow was saying to Xander as they entered the library. Then both stopped when they saw Wesley with Giles and Faith.

"We're not interrupting a secret meeting are we?" Xander asked. "Although, if we are, I have to tell you: Secret meetings in public places around 8:30 a.m.—not likely to stay secret for long."

"Ah, ah," Wesley stammered.

"Good one," Giles observed to Faith as he inclined his head toward Wesley.

Wesley scowled at Giles before addressing the newcomers. "There are no secret meetings here; I can't imagine what you could possibly mean."

"New watcher?" asked Willow.

"Good Lord!" Wesley said turning to Giles. "Does everyone here know about the Slayer?"

"We already know about the Watchers Council and whom they watch," said Willow, walking up to Wesley. "By the way, I'm WillowRosenberg."

"Willow, of course! I'm Wesley Windham-Price." He took her hand. "I understand that you are the witch who re-ensouled Buffy."

"Aww, well, I don't really consider myself a full-fledged witch," said Willow. She then introduced Xander who did not bother to shake hands but instead plopped down in a chair, saluted Wesley with a forefinger, and said, "Yo."

Wesley turned to Giles. "Just how many people in Sunnydale know about the Slayer?"

Giles removed his glasses and looked toward the ceiling for a moment. "Five," he said, "not including you and Faith herself, of course."

"Not including the undead, either," said Xander.

"Hard to keep the news from the vamps," said Faith.

"Say," said Xander, "you weren't sent here by the Council to replace Giles, were you? 'Cause that Buffy-vampire thing was so not Giles' fault."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence," said Giles wearily.

"Don't mention it," replied Xander.

"Perhaps it was not his fault," said Wesley, "but I have a duty to look into it." Then to Giles he said, "Since everyone in this room—as well as others not present, I gather—knows what this is all about, and since I am beginning seriously to doubt that there will ever be a moment when we may speak in private, would you mind my speaking frankly?"

"Was Frank invited to this meeting, too?" asked Xander. No one laughed.

"Feel free," Giles said to Wesley.

"Well, where do I begin? You have a Slayer killed by vampires—that's happened all too often, of course; she is then turned into a vampire herself—a rarer occurrence but not as rare as one might suppose; then, the thing you might expect, if at all possible, would be for the next Slayer in line—that would be Faith, here—to slay the, ah, Buffy-vampire as this young, ah, gentleman so colorfully described the former Slayer; however, just as Faith was about to do just that, you, Mr. Giles, prevented her from doing her duty."

"I told you the Council would see it that way," Faith reminded Giles.

"You are forgetting that Buffy had been re-ensouled at that point," Giles told Wesley.

"Yes, re-ensouling vampires," mused Wesley, "a practice frowned upon by the Council."

"Actually," said Giles, "it is a rare enough phenomenon that the Council has had no particular policy regarding it."

"Until last Monday," said Wesley. "As a result of recent goings on in Sunnydale, the full Council has indeed voted to forbid any and all Council personnel from performing or in any way involving themselves in any re-ensouling rituals."

"And this was decided last Monday?" asked Giles.

"At a special meeting of the Council."

"As usual, I didn't get the memo," said Giles.

"Delivering that information was one of my duties," said Wesley.

"And speedily discharged," said Giles sarcastically.

"Hold on, Mama!" exclaimed Xander. "You mean to tell me that now we can't re-ensoul Cordy, just because some twits across the big pond say we can't?"

"Who?" Wesley looked searchingly from person to person.

"I think the twits he's talking about are the Watchers Council," said Faith helpfully.

"No, I mean who's Cordy?" asked Wesley.

"When they turned Buffy into a…," began Giles, "well, they turned two other young women, as well. Cordelia was one of them, and she was a particular friend of Xander's."

"Not so much to the rest of us," Willow said.

"I hardly even knew her," added Faith.

"I see," said Wesley. He turned to Xander. "As sorry as I am for your loss—and believe me, as a watcher, I understand these things—but we can't go around giving vampires their souls back. Faith wouldn't know whom to slay anymore. Should we establish an assembly line re-ensouling every vampire? I suppose we should replace slaying with re-ensouling as the way to manage the vampire population? Imagine a world full of vampires with souls; it would be unnatural for one thing."

"One of my best friends is a vampire who's been re-ensouled," said Xander testily.

"Do you see, Mr. Giles, where your leadership—or the lack of it—has led?" said Wesley.

"It's news to me that this was an issue," said Giles.

"Actually, we came here to talk to you about it," said Willow, "Xander wants me to do the ritual again, this time to re-ensoul Cordelia, but I had qualms and said we should talk to you first."

"Ah! Thank God!" said Wesley. "At least someone here can be sensible. My compliments to you, Miss Rosenberg."

"Willow," she corrected him.

"In this matter, I am afraid that I would have to side with Willow's qualms," Giles said gently to Xander. "I know that Cordelia meant a great deal to you, but any time we resort to magic, there are consequences—unintended consequences—that we just might not be capable of dealing with."

"You gave Buffy her soul back," said Xander, "and there have been no unintended consequences so far."

"So far," echoed Giles. "There is the problem of her readjustment to having a soul. What if she becomes so unhappy that she someday curses us all for returning her soul to her?"

"I've just got to believe that won't happen," said Xander. "Besides, I also gotta believe it's better to have a soul than not have one. She has a choice now."

"That's one of the things that troubles me," said Giles. "Buffy never had a choice about being the Slayer, then she was forced to be a vampire, and now we've forced her to be a vampire with a soul; from here on, she does have choices, but they have become rather narrowed."

Giles turned to Wesley. "As for your report to the Council and your ambitions to become Faith's watcher, I can only point out that we are in a crisis here in Sunnydale."

"If you are referring to Mayor Wilkins, I have read your reports."

"Then you know that we are only beginning to discover the extent of the threat he poses."

"Precisely why I need to make my report and, if necessary, take corrective measures," said Wesley.

"The most corrective measure you could take," said Faith, "would be to put your report and your ego on hold and help us find out more about this bad guy."

"Interesting," said Wesley. "What is your assessment of the threat posed by the Mayor?"

"I know that he tried to sacrifice some babies to a demon so he could gain some kahuna-sized mojo; I know he's got an army of vamps workin' for him; I know his number one was Mr. Trick, who used to be right-hand man to Kakistos."

"Ah, Kakistos, the vampire who killed your first watcher in Boston," said Wesley, beaming. Faith winced and became silent. "What?" asked Wesley.

"High marks for doing your homework," said Giles. "Demerits for insensitivity."

"Anyway, Buffy slew Trick," said Willow. "By the way, she did that as a vampire."

"And now Cordy is the Mayor's Commander Riker," said Xander ruefully.

"His who?" asked Wesley.

"Really?" said Giles, looking quizzically at Wesley. " _I_ finally got one of their cultural references, and you didn't." He smiled to himself for a moment—before his expression turned to one of horror. "Dear Lord, I'm becoming one of them."

"Don't worry," said Xander, "You have a ways to go yet."

By now Faith had regained her composure. "Look, something just happened last night," she said. "A demon offered me something called the Books of Ascension. When I told him I wasn't interested, he said the Mayor would be, and if Wilkins found out this demon was selling them, he'd have him killed."

"You say this demon wants cash? How unusual," said Wesley.

"Demons after money," said Giles. "No one has standards anymore."

"What's the Ascension?" asked Xander.

Giles and Wesley exchanged looks before admitting that they were equally clueless.

"Oh! The Marenschadt Text!" exclaimed Willow. "In the section on genocide, the Ascension is mentioned."

"Go Red!" said Faith. "We have a winner."

More importantly, two losers," said Xander.

Willow told Giles where to find the volume; he brought it out and located the relevant passage.

"Ah, yes," Giles said, "there's a reference to the journal of Desmond Caine, pastor of the town of Sharpsville. It's dated May 26, 1723, and it reads, 'Tomorrow is the Ascension: God help us all.' It was the last anyone heard."

"Of Caine?" Wesley asked.

"No, of Sharpsville."

"The point is, we can't afford to swap horses right now," said Faith. "Can you give us a break and help us find out what we're up against before you write us up?"

"I am not sure I understood all of that, but I think I got the gist," said Wesley.

"Good," said Giles. "I was afraid I was the only one of us that did."

"Of course, I do have my orders from the Council," Wesley continued. "Still, I see your point about the possibly imminent nature of the threat posed by Mayor Wilkins, and the need you might have for my services as a highly-trained watcher; so I am willing to relay your views to the Council, Faith, and I might even add my recommendation that they have some merit."

"I'm sure we could use your expertise," said Willow.

"Why, thank you, Miss Rosenberg. It is good to be appreciated by someone around here."

"Please, call me Willow."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot—Willow." Then to everyone he added, "Right, then. I am off to telephone headquarters with our concerns. Ah, might I use the phone in your office?"

"Go right ahead," said Giles. "Make sure you call collect, though."

When Wesley was out of earshot, Faith said, "Nice going, Red."

"Oh, you know me: I like to read," Willow said. She gave Giles an apologetic look.

"No," said Faith. "I mean that was really helpful: the way you buttered up the new watcher? I can never do that shit. Maybe I could take a page from you on that."

"Hey, how come they call it 'buttering someone up' when the primary ingredient is always bullshit?" asked Xander.

"Well, Faith, it was also wise of you not to mention that Buffy was patrolling with you when you met that demon," said Giles. "I think it will take Mr. Windham-Price some time to get used to the way things are done here on the Hellmouth."

"You think he's close to being on the same page as the rest of us?" Faith asked.

"No," replied Giles.


	3. Chapter 3

In the parking lot after school, Mr. Quillish walked toward his 1988 Toyota Corolla. His heels dragged, a corner of his briefcase nearly scraped the pavement, and his head hung so low that when he reached the spot where his car should have been, all he could see instead were a pair of loafers.

Quillish looked up and up the tall frame of Eckhart who wore a letter jacket with "Sunnydale" and a razor-backed pig emblazoned on it. Quillish tried to turn around, but that way was blocked by Acevedo.

"You got me kicked out of school," said Acevedo. He shoved Quillish's shoulders. The teacher lost his grip on his briefcase. Eckhart grabbed it from behind and held the case over his own head.  
"Catch Andy!" he called.

"Going long!" shouted Acevedo. He ran backwards and sideways—right into Ms. LaChance.

"What do you think you boys are doing?" she said through gritted teeth. Her accent, Quillish noticed, was more pronounced when she was angry, and the anger in her voice now was palpable, like a heat wave pushing out from her and enveloping Acevedo, Eckhart and Quillish. Even though he knew it was not directed toward him, Quillish felt a knot of fear in the pit of his stomach: so, evidently, did Acevedo and Eckhart; Quillish looked back and forth between the two quivering boys.

"We weren't doing nothing," said Eckhart.

"You were not doing anything," said Ms. LaChance, correcting him without lessening her anger. "And you are lying, Mr. Eckhart, are you not? I just witnessed you doing something you are not supposed to do. Mr. Wood was very explicit in his warning to you. If he catches wind of any more of your foolishness then you, like Mr. Acevedo here, will be expelled.

"And you, Mr. Acevedo" -she pronounced each syllable "Ah-ceh-vay-doh" "—you are not supposed to be anywhere near this campus upon penalty of arrest. Do you think you can go through life beating people up and simply getting off with a suspension? You could land in jail yet for that stunt you pulled in Mr. Quillish's class today. Oh yes, you could, Mr. Acevedo."

"Please, don't tell Mr. Wood," begged Acevedo.

"Get out of here, both of you," said Ms. LaChance, clucking her tongue disgustedly, "before one of you wets his pants."

The boys immediately turned and fled. Quillish was amazed at how soon they were off of school property, the backs of their letter jackets receding along a tree-and-fence-lined street until they were almost imperceptible.

Quillish picked up his brief case where Eckhart had dropped it.

"Sorry I didn't make him hand it back to you, Mr. Quillish."

"Oh, no," said Quillish, "Thank you for all your help, Ms. LaChance."

"'Twas my pleasure," she replied. "And call me Abby. Now I think we promised ourselves to have a nice long talk. I know a quiet place on the edge of town where they serve good beer. Come. I'll treat you."

"Well," said Quillish hesitantly. "That's very nice of you…Abby… but you must promise to let me buy the second round."

"That is a deal," Abby said.

The place was out of the way but not an out-and-out dive. They were able to sit in a booth and get slowly drunk without anyone prying; the waitress was discreet enough to keep full pitchers coming and otherwise leave them to their conversation.

"I started out thinking that I had something to offer them," said Quillish over their second pitcher. "You know, my knowledge of history and literature isn't as advanced as some people's, but if the students knew what I know—if I could impart to them what I know—they would at least know something. That—that sounds so obvious, doesn't it."

"It makes sense, though," said Abby. "Young people think they know everything. Yet you do have much to offer them. You know, there are three styles of leadership: building, healing, and teaching. You would make a good leader because of your ability to teach; only you do not receive the respect you deserve. You must feel as if you are casting pearls before swine."

"Well, 'swine' is a bit harsh; I don't think of these kids as swine. Some of them are actually nice enough—when they're alone."

"Ah, but once they are in a mob, they soon undermine your authority, disrespect tradition, and cut off your head."

"What?" asked Quillish. He shook his head, uncertain of what he had heard.

"Sorry," said Abby, checking her enthusiasm. "I get carried away when such a fine leader as yourself is disrespected and overthrown. You have so much to teach them, but you must show them who is boss in order to get your message across."

Quillish: "Tell me, how do you do it?"

Abby: "I put myself in the right frame of mind and just take command."

Quillish: "I wish I could make those kids do anything I want."

"Done," said Abby. As she spoke, her voice deepened and her face contorted into a fearsome mask, like green terracotta.

A moment later, Quillish found himself alone and paying for four now-empty pitchers of beer. He was so drunk that he used the pay phone to call a cab.

* * *

Cordelia pushed open the door to Angel's mansion. The door creaked pleasantly, she thought.

"Angel," she called.

"You know, I could slay you where you stand," said Angel, as he emerged from the shadows, armed with a crossbow, "but then I'd have to wonder whether I'd ever find out why you risked coming here—or whether you had the sense to know the risk you were taking."

"Is that the only reason?" she asked. "Doesn't our friendship still mean anything to you?"

"I'm cutting you some slack because you used to be friends with Buffy."

"No, I wasn't."

"Oh, that's right," said Angel. "In that case, you had better fight or run." He rleveled the crossbow at her again.

Cordelia burst into tears. "I did come here knowing the risk," she sniffled, "but I thought you, of all people, would listen to me. Angel, I can't tell you how unhappy I am as a vampire."

"It's not for sissies," Angel agreed, but he kept the crossbow aimed at her heart.

Cordelia, however, continued to cry, and Angel, after a series of winces and a couple of hesitations, set aside the weapon, opened a drawer, and withdrew a couple of neatly folded handkerchiefs which he cautiously gave to her.

"Mmm," sniffed Cordelia. "They smell fresh." She sniffed again, but her tears had now subsided. "How come they have black borders? Like they used to use for funerals a long time ago. Aren't these old-fashioned?"

"I didn't know you knew about anything old-fashioned," said Angel.

"I generally don't know about old, but I know a lot about fashion." Cordelia replied.

"They're Drusilla's, actually," explained Angel. "She got 'em at a fire sale decades ago."

"I didn't know vampires get to go to fire sales," said Cordelia, her interest genuinely piqued.

"She was the first one there, since she started the fire," Angel said. "Anyway, ever since she left Sunnydale in kind of a hurry, I've kept 'em as a reminder that she might come back."

"That's nice. It shows you care for her even though she's a vampire without a soul."

"Did I say 'reminder'? I meant 'warning'."

Cordelia put both of her palms on angel's chest and looked up at him. "You know, we could be a real match, you and I."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, you know how since you love Buffy, you never want to make love to her and turn into Angelus?"

"So?"

"Well, with me you wouldn't have to worry about what you turned into, because I wouldn't mind a bit if you turn into evil old Angelus." She slipped a finger under his shirt and ran it playfully across his chest.

"Your point being?" asked Angel as he gently but firmly removed her hand from his shirt.

"Only that since you don't love me, we could have a lot of fun together, and maybe there wouldn't be any risk of Angelus-izing you. What do you say?"

"If that's all you've come for, you took a big risk for nothing," said Angel. "Now get out of here, before I change my mind about not slaying you."

"Sorry if I offended you," she said. "Most _straight_ guys wouldn't have turned me down."

"Having given most of 'em a shot, I believe you'd know," he said. She proffered the two handkerchiefs. "I've got a whole dresser full," he said. "You keep them."

Angel picked up the crossbow again, and Cordelia left.

Cordelia hurried home. Her first sortie had not been as successful as she had hoped, but she had not expected her mission to be easily accomplished. As she passed a row of hedges, she momentarily had the impression that something in them watched her. She paused but sensed no immediate threat. She hurried on.

When she had passed by, the figure of Buffy emerged from the hedges to watch Cordelia's receding back.

* * *

In the morning, Quillish came to school feeling as trepid as ever. Nevertheless, he walked into class and set his briefcase on the desk.

The students continued to chat and walk about the room in spite of his arrival. Without any expectation of success, he asked them to sit and be quiet. They did.

Astonished, Quillish stared at the class, which expectantly returned his look. He opened the middle desk drawer and took refuge in the lesson plan for a moment, during which the class remained eerily quiet. He looked up to see them all sitting stock-still. When he looked down again, a volume lying in the drawer caught his eye. He picked it up and leafed through it, noting that it was inscribed: "Property of Owen Thurman."

Suddenly, Quillish was struck by an inspiration. He set the lesson plan aside and said, "Mr. Eckhart, I would like you to come up here, take this book, and read out loud the poem I've marked."

Eckhart came up, uncomfortably but obediently. He took the book, faced the class, wiped a bit of perspiration from his brow and did his best to read:

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes—  
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—  
The Heart questions was it He, that bore,  
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

"The Feet, mechanical, go round—  
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—  
A Wooden way  
Regardless grown,  
A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

"This is the Hour of Lead—  
Remembered, if outlived,  
As Freezing persons, recollect the snow—  
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—"

"Read it again," Quillish commanded. "Try to put a little more feeling into it."

Eckhart did, but this time he couldn't hold back tears, moved by his own reading.

"Tell me why the poem makes you cry, Mr. Eckhart?"

"My Dad died when I was eight," said Eckhart tearfully, but he looked horrified by his own admission as he spoke.

Pete Whitman led the others in laughing at Eckhart. Some of the girls, however, were looking dreamily at Eckhart, and one seated next to Whitman broke her concentration long enough to whisper, "Cut it out, Pete."

"Mr. Whitman, stand up, please," said Quillish. Whitman stood. "Why don't you explain what the first stanza of the poem is about—in your own words?"

Mr. Wood knocked on the door and entered. "Just came by to see if there was actually anybody in here; it's so quiet."

"Good morning, Mr. Wood," said Quillish. "We were just studying a poem by Emily Dickinson. Mr. Whitman was admiring Mr. Eckhart's excellent reading of the poem. Isn't that right, Mr. Whitman?"

"Yes, sir," said Whitman.

"And he was about to dazzle us with an exegesis of the first stanza when you came in. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Wood?"

I'm very impressed," said Wood. "Could we have a brief word in the hall?"

"Certainly. Class, while I'm away, I want you to write down your thoughts and feelings about this poem."

The class, as one person, immediately set pens to paper and scribbled away without a murmur. Quillish followed Wood into the hall.

"What did you do?" asked Wood.

"Oh, I followed your advice: I put myself in the right frame of mind and just took command."

"I never said that."

"Oh, well, Ms. LaChance also gave me some pointers, but I found your advice inspiring, too," Quillish said.

"Ms. Who?"

"Ms. LaChance—Abby LaChance? Yesterday was his first day substituting for Mr. Salmonen."

"But Mr. Salmonen wasn't out yesterday," said Wood. "And we haven't had any new subs all semester."

"That can't be!" exclaimed Quillish. "I spoke with her."

"Oh, I believe you spoke to somebody," replied Wood, "but I assure you: it wasn't a new substitute."

* * *

Cordelia approached Angel's mansion once again, even though she did not intend to visit or even linger longer than it took to leave a package of documents.

The Mayor was a very clever man, she thought. He had had his assistant, Allan Finch, select some documents showing corruption in the form of kickbacks, conflict of interest, and even the occasional hiring of vampires and sorcerers by the administration—nothing that could be used to stop the Ascension, of course, but the papers were more than mildly damning; Cordelia handwrote a cover letter to go with them. It read:

"Angel—

"Everything I tried to say last night came out wrong. I am so sorry I offended you. I never seem to know how to talk to people who have souls any more.

"Please believe that I do hate being a vampire, and I hate working for the Mayor even more. Let this package of documents—which I stole at great risk to me—prove my sincerity.

"Your Used-To-Be-Friend,

"Cordelia"

No sooner had she left the packet of papers on the doorstep than she heard footsteps coming up the walk. Cordelia hid and soon saw Buffy arrive at the door.

Buffy rapped on the door with the great doorknocker and then put her hands behind her back while she patiently waited. She looked down and saw the packet.

As Cordelia watched, her blood would have boiled—had it not been so cold. By the time Angel opened the door, Buffy was already reading Cordelia's letter.

"Hi, Buffy, come on in."

"I see that you entertained Cordelia last night," said Buffy, handing Angel the letter. "At least you weren't taken in by her, judging from the tone of this."

Angel read the letter. "What's in the packet?" he asked, seeing that Buffy was already looking through it.

"They're all documents from City Hall. Some are fairly recent. Others go back a year or two. Looks like payments made. Hello." Buffy held up a sheet of paper.

"What?" said Angel, taking the document out of her hand.

"Did I just see something with Mr. Trick's name on it?" asked Buffy.

"And the names of a couple other vampires I know," said Angel. "I can't believe the Mayor would leave a paper trail documenting his dealings with vampires."

"I can't believe Cordelia has the intelligence to find these, organize them, and deliver them to you." She turned over a sheet of paper and examined the blank side. "I never even realized she could operate a photocopier," she added.

"Aw, lay off," said Angel.

"Excuse me?" replied Buffy.

"You're always so down on Cordelia. What did she ever do to you, anyway?"

"She told the entire school I'm a homicidal maniac, for starters."

"But, look," said Angel. "Maybe this proves something about Cordelia."

"That she could get a job as a secretary? Maybe there's a big firm that hires demons on a regular basis."

"You know what I'm saying," said Angel, frustration rising in his voice. "She is trying to help us. She got these papers for us at great risk to herself."

"So she says," replied Buffy. "By the way, did you notice how every sentence in her letter features the word 'I' or 'me'? Some things about Cordelia haven't changed."

"All I'm saying, Buffy, is maybe we should give her the benefit of the doubt in case there's any possibility she could help with the Mayor. Besides, maybe she's not as bad as we thought."

"Hello?" said Buffy. "Does she have a soul? Did she ever?"

"You're being harsh," said Angel.

"And you're being gullible," said Buffy. "Tell me honestly: do you want to save Cordelia or date her?"

"Save her, of course," said Angel.

"You can't!" Buffy told him.

"Besides, if I did want to date her, it's not as if you have any claim on me," said Angel.

"I'm not talking about that, anyway," said Buffy.

"Aren't you? Stop being jealous," said Angel. Buffy took a step backward.

"Stop telling me what to do," said Buffy.

"Fine," replied Angel. " _You_ stop telling _me_ what to do."

"I think I will!" said Buffy, and she stalked away from Angel's home.

Angel went inside and slammed the door.

Cordelia came out of her hiding place and slowly walked—almost danced—across the porch. She smiled. This was working out better than she had expected.

* * *

Faith was training with Giles and Wesley, or, rather, at the moment, Wesley was nursing his bruises while Giles took over training. Buffy walked in.

"Hi, B," said Faith.

"Ah, Buffy," Giles greeted her happily.

"What's she doing here?" Wesley cried shrilly. Forgetting his sore flesh, he leaped up and went for a wooden cross and vial of holy water, which he held between himself and Buffy.

"Who's he?" asked Buffy.

"New watcher," replied Faith.

"I thought you were keeping Giles," said Buffy.

"I'm appealing any decision to the contrary," said Faith.

"Are you really re-ensouled," asked Wesley, lowering his guard, "or have you become evil again?"

"Good luck," said Buffy to Faith. "By the way, I heard you took some exams today and they might fast-lane your admission to Sunnydale High soon. Congratulations. When do you start?"

Faith made a face and punched Giles in his padded arm—and in spite of the padding, he winced.

"It isn't entirely clear yet," said Wesley, putting away the holy water but holding on to the cross. "We need to see the results first, and they might be available as early as tomorrow afternoon, but if they are acceptable—" (Faith struck Giles with another excessive blow.) "—as I am sure they will be—"

"Thanks a lot," said Faith over her shoulder.

"Then Faith might be admitted as soon as Thursday," Wesley concluded.

"Day after tomorrow," observed Buffy, sounding impressed.

"Yeah," said Faith through gritted teeth as she struck Giles hard once more, "but I'm a little p. that everybody keeps talking about this subject when I don't want to."

"Really?" said Giles. "I couldn't tell."

"So I'd appreciate if everyone'd just drop it."

"No problem," said Buffy. "Actually, I'm here to speak to Giles about something."

"Yes?" Giles said.

"In private," Buffy added.

"Oh, well, in that case, I suppose—Faith, if you will excuse me? I think it's Wesley's turn again."

"Whatever," said Faith, taking a few practice punches that came fairly close to Giles body and made him flinch in spite of the fact that he kept on smiling. He surrendered his position to Wesley her came slowly to stand on his mark.

Giles and Buffy retired to his office and closed the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Joyce came home late from the gallery and picked up the mail. There was an official looking envelope addressed to Buffy. Joyce opened it at the kitchen table: it was an acceptance letter from Northwestern University. She began to cry.

"What's the matter, Mom?" asked Buffy coming up behind her.

Joyce put away the letter quickly. "I've just been feeling overwhelmed by so many things that have happened. Sorry."

"Would it be better if I moved out?" Buffy asked.

"No, that's precisely what I'm not ready for. I know you will go eventually—and sooner than I ever expected—but if you could put it off as long as possible, I would be grateful."

"Of course, I'll do my best, Mom." Buffy kissed her mother on the cheek.

* * *

During the day, Cordelia used the basement of City Hall as her base of operations, but at night Wilkins let her use an apartment, owned secretly by the city—which was to say, by the Mayor—and there she stored her growing wardrobe of black lace and leather.

Cordelia answered a knock at the apartment door and smiled when she saw Angel there. She let him in and watched him tour the apartment, walking the distance from the long hallway, lined with ample closet space, to the living room. She saw him admiring the spacious kitchenette off to one side but, even more the large picture window looking onto a terrace.

"Very nice," said Angel, "but you don't spend much time here—during the day, I mean."

"I'm never home during the day. How did you know?" asked Cordelia.

"No curtains."

"Of course," she said, "but I don't miss it because I keep very busy."

"I'll bet the Mayor keeps you busy."

"I'm even busier now that I'm working for him and against him at the same time."

"Are you?" asked Angel.

"If you didn't believe that, I don't think you'd be here now," Cordelia replied.

"Let's say I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, let's see what we can come up with to fight the Mayor."

Into the night, they plotted. Cordelia had a few ideas of her own, which impressed Angel, and he told her so. At 2 a.m., they were still at it.

"Would you like to take a break?" asked Cordelia.

Angel had not previously noticed how very close she was to him on the couch. "Well, I don't think there is anything more we can do tonight," he said, sliding away from her a little. "We need to see how phase one plays out before we know which way to go in phase two. Besides, I better be getting home, the sun will be up in a couple of hours."

"More like three hours."

"Yeah, well, I better be going, anyway."

"Oh, just a minute," said Cordelia, "I almost forgot." She bounced up from the couch and went to a dresser. She opened the top drawer, withdrew something, closed the drawer and glided back to Angel. "Here." She handed him the two black-bordered handkerchiefs, which were crisply folded. "I washed and ironed them myself."

"Oh, you didn't have to," said Angel.

"No, I did. You see, I don't want to keep anything of yours that I don't deserve."

"They're just cloth, Cordelia. Don't even belong to me; they're Dru's."

Cordelia winced. "I'd rather not have anything that belongs to her—the cast offs of one of your castoffs."

"It isn't like that," said Angel. "I don't know if I can explain it to you, but I'll try: I feel guilty for what I did to Dru—at least I used to feel guilty. Ever since she started killing Slayers, I've felt more guilty for cutting her slack."

"You're right, I don't get all the guilt: it must be a soul thing."

"Yeah," said Angel. "The point is, the next time I see Dru, I'll probably slay her."

"And how about me?" asked Cordelia. "You still want to slay me?"

"No," he said. "As a matter of fact, I'm kinda glad to be working with you. I can't explain it, quite, but I have this strong feeling that we were destined to work together one way or another. That doesn't make any sense, I know, but…."

"But it does make sense," said Cordelia, who had taken a seat beside him on her couch and now slid close enough so that her thigh lightly touched his. "I've had the same feeling. That's why I came to you."

Angel got up and walked to the other side of the coffee table. "No. This really doesn't make sense," he said. "I know what you want, but it can't be."

"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mister," she said. "Maybe you should just go home after all."

"Yes," was all that he said. He put on his coat and then gathered up the several documents from the packet that he had thought significant enough to bring to this meeting. He put them in the pocket of his coat and said goodbye without looking at Cordelia.

"It's because you still love Buffy," she said.

"What?" He turned and looked at her. Even from across the room he could see her eyes glistening with tears.

"You still have feelings for her; so you can't act on your desires," she told him. "I have desires, too. I may not have a soul like you do—like she does—but I still have feelings. I am willing to give up acting on my desire and never mention it again, but I won't deny it to myself. I want to bear myself to you, now, Angel: I yearn for you. Maybe you think I only know lust, but I can still feel love."

"You don't have to convince me that vampires can feel love," said Angel. "I was like you once. It's different without a soul, yes, but it is love—at least, I think it is: God only knows, maybe I've never known anything but obsession whether I've had a soul or not."

"Oh, you love Buffy," said Cordelia. "I could always tell."

"Maybe you shouldn't keep talking about her. Reminding me of her isn't making me want to take my coat off."

"It's you that can't stop thinking about her," said Cordelia. "I don't believe there's anything I can say that would make you stay. So I might as well put a name to it."

"Buffy isn't the same now," said Angel. "Since she became a vampire, she's not who she used to be."

"She has her soul, though."

"Still, she's changed. I don't believe she loves me any more."

"How can you be sure?"

"Tonight—earlier this evening, before I came over here..." Angel spoke haltingly. "I think—I think we broke up."

"You've had cooling off periods before," soothed Cordelia.

"Oh, yeah." Angel laughed hollowly. "Breaking up with Buffy is so easy that I've done it more times than I can count."

"Maybe you'll get back together."

"What for?" asked Angel, his voice tinged with anger. "To get my heart broken all over again? Nah, this is it. I can only take so much. I'm only human." He looked Cordelia in the eye and she suddenly knew for a certainty that he saw there the reflection of what he was—as if vampires could see their reflections. "Well, part of me is human," he added.

* * *

When Cordelia woke up, it was still well before dawn. She was alone in her convertible couch-bed. Between the sheets she was naked and she could smell his sweat on her breasts, co-mingled with her own. Sex is always dirty, she told herself—and that's how it should be.

Her lips still tingled from his kisses—and where he had nipped her lip and drawn blood with his fangs. She ran her tongue over the cut, which stung deliciously even though it was already beginning to heal. She felt with her hands next to her on the bed, but he wasn't there.

She sat up. In the dim light of her apartment, she saw him standing in the kitchenette, leaning against the counter. He was fully dressed.

"I was about to wake you up," he said. "You take chances with the sun, sleeping so near to an uncovered window."

"I seem to have an instinct for getting up a good while before the sun," she said. "How did you sleep?"

"Sleep. I've slept far too long," he said disdainfully.

"What do you mean, Angel?"

"Oh, you can drop the act now, Cordy, my love. You've got what I think you wanted all along: it isn't Angel anymore, it's Angelus."

"Good," said Cordelia, running to him naked and throwing her arms around him. She kissed him on the mouth and gave him a little nip of her own.

"Yeah," he said wearily, "there'll be time for more of that later on."

Cordelia kept her arms around his neck but leaned her head back and looked into his eyes. "That's right," she said. "There's someone I think you should meet."

"I think you mean there's someone who should meet me," Angelus corrected her.

"Whatever. You two should meet, and then you can decide who needs to kiss whose ass."

Cordelia got dressed quickly. She smelled of their lovemaking, but so, she had noticed, did Angel—Angelus, she reminded herself. She had done it. Turned Angel into Angelus. She pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming—then wished she had asked Angelus to pinch her, but there wasn't time.

On their way, Cordelia and Angel encountered a disheveled man, necktie loosened and smelling of beer.

"Guess what?" slurred the man to Angel. "I've found my calling!"

Angel punched the man in the face, twice, sending him into the gutter.

"That guy bugs me," said Angel.

"Isn't he a sub at Sunnydale High?" asked Cordelia, looking over her shoulder but not bothering to stop.

"Yeah," said Angel. "You want to stop and have a bite?"

"No, we have to get to City Hall before the sun comes up."

"Right," Angel said. "Besides, his blood alcohol was too high, and I want to be sober when I meet the Mayor."

* * *

Quillish managed to get home in time to shower—and shave a little around the swollen parts of his jaw—before he had to get to school. He came to school with his face still badly bruised. Wesley could not help noticing when they passed in the hall.

Minutes later, Wesley led Quillish into the library where he introduced the substitute teacher to the members of the assembled Scooby gang and urged him to tell them what had happened.

"The other night at the Bronze I met this guy named Angel. He seemed like a nice enough fellow then, but last night—or maybe it was more like early this morning—when I bumped into him on the street, he hauled off and beat me up."

"I told you so," said Xander. "And need I point out, it could have been one of us with a black eye instead of him. Not that anyone would have wanted it to be you, Mr. Quillish."

"Oh, shut up," said Quillish.

"Yes, sir," said Xander.

Giles looked from Xander to Quillish and back again.

"Well, wouldn't Angel have just eaten the guy if he had really turned evil?" asked Faith.

"Perhaps," said Giles. "This is very important Mr. Quillish: how close to dawn was it when you encountered Angel?"

"Oh, well, I don't want people to get the wrong idea or anything—I mean, that I go carousing on school nights until all hours—because I don't."

"Of course not," said Giles soothingly but with a tinge of impatience.

"But I guess it was pretty close to dawn. I went straight home after he hit me, and it was light before I got there."

"He would have forgone eating him if he was in a hurry," said Wesley.

"I think the rest of us got there already, Wes," said Faith.

I'm sorry," said Quillish, "but why does everyone keep implying that Mr. Angel might have eaten me if he'd been in an evil enough mood?"

Don't worry about it, pal," said Faith. "You just trundle on back to class and let us deal with this."

"I beg your pardon, young lady," said Quillish imperiously. "I demand some respect."

"I'm sorry she spoke to you like that," Giles apologized, but he turned so that Faith alone could see him roll his eyes.

"I insist on the young lady making her own apologies," said Quillish indignantly.

"Screw you," said Faith.

"What is your name?" he demanded. "And why aren't all of you students in class?"

"I have a free period," stammered Xander. "Well, I don't really have a free period, but I always say that when we're in Scooby mode."

"Scooby what?" asked Quillish, both perplexed and peeved.

"Xander, cool it," said Willow.

"And what is your name, young lady?"

"I'm Willow Rosenberg," she said. "You substituted for my computer science class two weeks ago."

"Oh," said Quillish. "Sorry about that."

"It's OK," said Willow. "It only took a week to undo the damage; so we're all caught up now. If a week behind is caught up, that is."

"Well, I apologize for that, but I assure you that if I ever get the chance to substitute in your class again, I'll have them a week ahead of schedule—or I would if I knew anything about computers; I wish they wouldn't keep making me substitute in subjects I'm no good at."

"That's all right," said Willow. "I'm going to try not to miss any more classes this year, but if I do, you can be sure I'll, ah, keep you in mind."

"Thank you. Well, I for one must be getting back to class. If you leave them to themselves for a minute, they start a revolution, you know."

He walked toward the door. "Xander Harris, is it?" he said when he was almost to the library door.

"Yes sir?"

"You're name really stands out in Mrs. Bates attendance book. You haven't been to class all semester. Coming along?"

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." With that Xander packed his backpack hastily and dashed after the teacher.

Willow and Giles exchanged puzzled looks.

"You see?" said Faith. "That's the kind of b.s. that makes me feel like not becoming a student at this Mickey Mouse school."

"Now, Faith," said Wesley, "we've gone over this already; being a student at Sunnydale High will make it easier for you to get into the library to work with Mr. Giles and me. Just think of it as going under cover."

"Plus I'm going to hate being a freshman," said Faith.

"That's why it was important that you took the advanced placement tests," said Giles. "Maybe you'll be admitted as a junior. That wouldn't be so bad."

"Anyway, we'll know later this afternoon," said Wesley.

"Look at Buffy," said Willow, "she's going all the way to Ojai to take night classes three times a week and qualify for her GED."

Faith stared coldly at Willow.

"Ah… Willow," said Giles with a pained look on his face. Then to Faith, "Don't worry. The results of the tests will be positive—some at least."

"Can we get back to Angel?" said Wesley. "What are we going to do about him if he has gone evil?"

"Well, the first thing we're going to do is contact Buffy," said Giles.

"What and make her miss night school?" asked Faith, still glaring at Willow.

* * *

"You can't be killed, but you don't like germs," said Angelus, trying to understand.

Mayor Wilkins contorted his face. "Yee-uck! Disgusting things."

Angelus nodded even though he didn't get it.

"Remember," said the Mayor. "Torture the Slayer all you want, but don't kill her. 'The devil we know is better than the one we don't.'"

"That's good," said Angelus. "Do you mind if I use that without citing you as the source?"

Wilkins smiled at Cordelia. "I've heard of his whimsical nature, but he's got more of a sense of humor than I expected."

* * *

As they wandered through the sewer tunnels beneath the city, Angelus and Cordelia traded ideas for taking Faith "off-line" as Cordelia put it.

"Faith should be seducible enough," said Angelus.

"You mean, like, seducible seducible?" asked Cordelia.

"No, sweet cheeks," said Angelus. "Just meant we could lure her into a trap. After that, if you want to seduce her, its up to you."

"Only if you'll make it a three way," said Cordelia, smiling slyly.

"Hmmm, I might prefer to watch, if you don't mind."

"Mind! Why would I mind?" She stopped and ran her hands all over him and gave him a long kiss.

When they got back to his mansion Angelus made love to Cordelia yet again before they got to work and finalized their plans.

"You know," said Angelus. "We really ought to think about taking Buffy 'off-line'. She might be a threat to the Mayor, too."

"Not to worry," said Cordelia. "The Mayor knows what he's doing. If he needs to take out Buffy he'll order it."

"You really obey the Mayor without question don't you?"

"He's a winner. I've hitched my wagon to the biggest star."

"Hah! Just be sure you haven't hitched your wagon to a meteor that burns up in the sky before it ever reaches the earth."

"Then why are you in this?"

"I'm in it for you, Cordy. I wasn't bullshitting when I said that something about you tells me we were always destined to be together. I don't know why I never saw it before."


	5. Chapter 5

Faith consulted her schedule and confirmed that she had English with Mrs. Bates, but the man standing at the head of the class looked like the same guy Angelus had punched out the day before. In fact, Faith thought, it _was_ the same guy. What was his name? Oh, yeah, Quillish.

"Mornin', Mr. Q," said Faith.

Quillish reared up. "Don't call me 'Mr. Q'," he said, but then he paused thoughtfully. "No, wait…I like that. You can call me 'Mr. Q'."

Faith felt like an emotional yo-yo inside, as if Mr. Q's initial command not to call him that had pulled her in one direction, and then the countermand yanked her in another. "OK," she replied tentatively.

"Do you have your admittance slip?" he asked. Faith surrendered her paperwork.

"Class, take your seats," said Quillish, and everyone—including Faith, to her own surprise—immediately went to sit down. Only, in Faith's case, she did not know where to sit.

"Mr. Whitman, please help Ms. McCarthy find a seat."

"Yes, sir," replied Whitman.

Faith felt creepy being referred to as 'Ms. McCarthy'—especially since that was not her real name. The Council had many resources, and coming up with an identity for her that came complete with fake elementary and middle school transcripts had been child's play for them—although Faith was disappointed that they had given her inconspicuous grades.

Whitman guided her to an empty chair in the middle of a row. Faith sat down and began to fish through her backpack for pencil and paper.

"Ms. McCarthy," said Quillish, startling Faith, "would you be so good as to spell the word 'myriad' for me?"

"Ahh, m-e-r-a-i-d?" Faith ventured.

"No," said Quillish. "That was surprisingly close to the proper spelling of 'mermaid' but not correct for 'myriad'." He consulted a sheet on his desk. "Ms. Shen?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I believe you are in charge of spelling."

"Yes, Mr. Quillish."

"Ms. McCarthy is in your group today."

"Yes, Mr. Quillish."

"Now then, Mr. Guerrero?"

"Sir."

"I've decided to add a composition group. Your answers on yesterday's pop essay quiz were very well written. You'll lead the new group that will include the following students: David Cameron, Albert Eng, Xander Harris, Linda Morales, George Markarian, and Lucille Skerry. Harris and Skerry, please note that this supersedes your obligation to study spelling with Ms. Shen. Now, Margaret Heffermehl?"

"Yes, Mr. Quillish."

"Your sentence diagramming group will not meet today so that you may attend my Shakespeare symposium. The rest of your group will meet with Ms. Shen, but tomorrow the diagramming group will meet again and Ms. McCarthy will join you. All right, everyone to your corners. Let's get to it, class."

Being intimidated by anyone was an unfamiliar experience for Faith. It took her a moment even to identify the feeling, but she had to ask a question no matter that questioning this teacher's authority made her queasy. "Mr. Q? Aren't you kinda shortchanging the class by not teaching us yourself?"

"Not at all," he replied. "If I taught each of you what you need to learn, one by one, I'd never teach most of you anything. This way, I am very busy organizing and supervising the education of all of you." He walked to the rear corner of the room near the windows where four students drew their chairs around him.

Faith saw circles of students of various sizes drawing together in the other corners of the room. Though Quillish had not mentioned the topics of all of these other groups, he had obviously set them up during a previous class. Faith gathered her things and obediently carried her chair to her group.

* * *

That evening, Angelus walked up the steps to the Summers home and knocked. It wasn't long before Joyce answered the door. He noticed that her hair had just been permed that day.

"Oh, I'm afraid Buffy isn't here. You just missed her," said Joyce.

"That's all right," said Angelus. "I came by to see Faith. Are they both out on patrol?"

"No," said Joyce. "In fact, Buffy went looking for her because Faith didn't come home from her first day of school. I'm frankly a bit worried. I know Faith isn't exactly used to calling home, but this seems very odd."

"Maybe she went patrolling by herself," suggested Angelus.

"Well, if she did, she didn't tell Mr. Giles about it."

"Hmm," said Angelus. He complimented Joyce on her hair and walked to the sidewalk. "She isn't home," he said. Cordelia emerged from the shadow of a neighbor's hedge. "This interrupts our plan, but we should be patient," he told her.

"Maybe Joyce is lying," she said. "I can't go in without an invitation, but you can, and then you could torture her until she tells the truth."

"I don't think she's lying. She seems genuinely puzzled by Faith's not being home yet. There probably is something funny going on around here—I mean, besides us. I say we bide our time. Maybe Buffy will find Faith for us, or maybe we'll find her tomorrow."

"You wouldn't want to go back to my place and get into some hanky-panky, would you?"

"I was thinking more in terms of chez moi, lover," said Angelus. "I have chains at my place."

* * *

"Mr. Quillish," said Vice-principal Wood, stopping the substitute on his way to class the next morning. "I wonder if I might ask you a question."

"Certainly."

"Just what in blazes are you doing?"

"Sir?"

"I understand that you are dividing up your classes into study groups and the students are actually teaching each other?"

"Yes, but I assure you that I supervise every group. I think that when you test them, you'll find great improvement in everyone—including the students who are doing the teaching. And I monitor their work and also teach them advanced material myself."

"Where did you get this idea?" asked Wood.

"I don't really know," said Quillish. "It popped into my head that I could get more teaching done if I delegated some of it. Students often learn best from other students who have just learned the material—I do think I read that somewhere back in college; I just never thought to construct a whole methodology around it."

"Well, I have to say I admire you for your initiative, but I have received complaints from Mr. Leong in the math department and Ms. Hapgood of social studies that you are organizing study groups in their subjects, as well. Students all over the school, it seems, are teaching each other without regard to the official curriculum. Your each-one-teach-one system seems commendable in some ways, but it's kinda leading to chaos."

"Well, Mr. Wood, chaos is in the mind of the beholder," replied Quillish. "But I certainly don't want to step on anyone's toes. I'll try to limit myself to the students who ask for my help. You wouldn't want me to turn away students who want my help would you?"

"No," said Wood uncertainly.

"Well, they all want my help. All you have to do is ask them." Just then, the first bell rang. "Excuse me, I must hurry if I'm going to make the second bell. You can't leave them to themselves for long, can you?" He hurried off.

"No, I don't suppose you can," said Wood to himself. He felt certain that his conversation with Quillish had not resolved anything.

* * *

At the same time that the conversation between Wood and Quillish took place, Faith entered the school library. Giles, Wesley, Buffy, and Willow were sitting around the main table.

"Faith, we've been worried sick about you," said Wesley. "Where were you last night? And don't say you were patrolling; I know you were not."

"Oh, of course I wasn't," said Faith. Turning to Giles, she added, "I went to the town library to do research for a term paper in English. Do you realize that in your drive to get the best demonology collection of any school in California—if not the country—you completely forgot to get any books on sentence diagramming?"

"Sentence what?" asked Buffy.

"Yeah, that's what I said, too," replied Faith. "Mr. Q says that I should do a term paper on it. It's really interesting, too—in a wicked dreary way."

"And you spent the evening at the public library?" asked Willow.

"Yeah. That's what I said," said Faith, annoyed by the obviousness of the question.

"What about your patrolling?" asked Giles.

"What about it?"

"Well, ordinarily, I would laud any young American's taking an interest in the proper use of the English language, but isn't slaying a tad more vital than sentence diagramming?"

"Not if I want to pass Mr. Q's class," replied Faith.

"Who is this Mr. Q?" asked Wesley.

"Mr. Quillish is the guy you brought in here the other day," said Faith "—the one Angelus punched out—which reminds me: if I ever catch him," she added, knitting her brow in anger, "I am so going to make him pay for that."

"I'm puzzled," said Willow. "Didn't you say all that school work and obedience to teachers is Mickey Mouse B.S.?"

"I stand by that—in general—but Mr. Q is different. So stop hassling me, huh? Jeez! Make up your minds! Do you guys want me to become a regular schoolgirl or don't you?"

"But I went to school here," said Buffy, "and I was never what you'd call a 'regular schoolgirl'."

"Well, I'm not you," said Faith. Just then, the first bell rang. "OK, I'm sorry about last night, but from now on, if you can't find me, I'm probably at the library. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta get to Mr. Q's class."

After Faith left, the Scooby Gang was silent for a long while.

"Are we talking about Quillish the substitute?" asked Buffy. "Because the other night I saw him talking to Angel at the Bronze. Quillish seems to have an alcohol problem, by the way, if anyone cares. Anyway, Angel described him as terrified of his students because they won't obey him."

"Yes," said Willow. "But not anymore. All of a sudden he isn't scared of anybody. Not students, not teachers. He even takes students away from other teachers and gives them assignments of his choosing.

"All over school, kids are ignoring their regular teachers and even cutting classes so they can go to his room. As a teacher, I'd have to say it's very unsettling—even if you have seen the kinds of things we've seen on the hellmouth. I'm glad that he doesn't know much about computers or I think he would've tried taking over my classes."

"You mean this Mr. Quillish is teaching a number of classes at once? How does he do that?" asked Wesley.

"Precisely what I hoped Mr. Giles might be able to explain," said Mr. Wood walking into the library. Giles suddenly realized that there would be a lot more explaining to do if the vice-principal saw Buffy, but when he looked toward the chair where she had been sitting it was empty. He presumed that she had gone the way she had come, slipping into the tunnels underneath the school, which connected to the rear of the library stacks.

Wood explained Quillish's method of dividing classes into groups in which students taught each other under his supervision.

"Dear Lord," said Giles and Wesley in unison. But then only Giles added, "It's the Lancastrian system!"

"I never heard of it," said Wood. "Do they use it in Lancaster over in England?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Wesley.

"The Lancaster method isn't named for a place," said Giles. "It's named for its inventor, Joseph Lancaster—1778 to 1838, I believe. Interestingly, he was born in London but died in New York, so he did bring his method to these shores. But until recently there has been very little resurgent interest in "monitorial instruction" as the method is often called; it isn't taught much in schools of education; so there's no particular reason you should have heard of it, nor would Mr. Quillish likely have run across it in the course of his education; however, Lancastrianism has made a comeback in the most surprising places. It's quite interesting, really." But Giles looked around at his audience and realized that they were not warming to the subject as he was.

"I'm sure he didn't learn it anywhere," said Wood. "He says that it just came to him shortly after he overcame his fear of students."

"And when did that occur?" asked Giles.

"Earlier this week," said Wood. "It was after I spoke to him about the discipline problems in all of the classes where he substitutes. At first, I might have liked to take credit for the change in him, but now I'm glad to think that someone else is responsible."

"Who do you mean?" asked Giles. Wood told them about the mysterious substitute teacher Quillish claimed to have met.

"I searched records going back several years," explained Wood, "and there never has been a substitute—or a regular teacher, for that matter—named Abby LaChance."

"Very disturbing," said Giles.

"See here, why don't you just sack the bloke?" asked Wesley.

"Huh?" said Wood. "Oh, you mean 'fire him'. I already would have, but in less than a week, he has the parents of his students eating out of his hand. There is even a petition going around to have him hired as a full-time teacher. They're impressed that someone is actually able to get kids interested in learning. I'm impressed, too, but I'm also alarmed. Do you think you can help, Mr. Giles?"

"Research mode?" said Willow.

"Right," said Giles.

"Can I help?" asked Wood.

Giles hesitated. "Perhaps I should call on you if I need your assistance."

"Because I already know about demons and Slayers and all that," said Wood.

"Good Lord!" cried Wesley to no one in particular. Then to Giles he said, "Do you people publish a newsletter or some such thing?"

"Believe me," said Wood, "I have known about Slayers—and watchers—since I was six years old."

He then revealed to them that he had been born to a Slayer in New York and that her watcher had also raised and mentored him. Naturally, Giles and Wesley had known the man; so, after an exchange of polite reminiscences about their late colleague, Giles and Wesley formally agreed that Wood was welcome to help them in their research.

"One thing that very much troubles me is that Quillish seems to have magical control over the students," said Giles. "Xander was instantly obedient when Quillish gave him an instruction. Faith was insolent when she first met Quillish, but now she would rather study for him than slay vampires."

"Oh!" cried Willow. "I get it! He can magically make students obey him; so, before Faith became a student, he had no power over her."

"You're a student," observed Wood. "Does he have any power over you?"

"Actually, no, but that must be because I have quasi-teacher status."

"So there is definitely a spell of some sort at work here," Wesley said as he set a second pile of books on the table. He and Giles divided the books among the four of them.

Before long, duty called Willow and Wood away, but they returned at four o'clock that afternoon. In the meanwhile, Giles and Wesley had narrowed down the search to a handful of books.

"My working hypothesis is that we are dealing with the wish or curse—depending upon one's perspective—associated with a vengeance demon," Giles explained.

"It seems a stretch," commented Wesley, but he offered no alternative.

"Oh, you mean like this vengeance demon?" asked Willow. She held up a book with the picture of a demon in a flowing gown, a greenish mask-like face, and a large Afro. "Her name is Abenaa," said Willow, reading from the book.

"Abenaa—Abby, of course!" said Giles. He was as excited as he ever got. "And what is her specialty?"

"Huh?" said Wood, looking over Willow's shoulder.

"Each vengeance demon specializes in granting wishes to individuals with a particular type of problem," said Giles. "Some vengeance demons avenge betrayed lovers; others avenge abandoned children; still others might avenge…."

"Kings who have been overthrown," said Willow.

"What?"

"'Abenaa specializes in cursing the rebellious who have overthrown legitimate leaders of every kind,'" Willow read. She then handed the book over to Giles, and he read out loud the tale of Abenaa:

 _Three centuries ago, there was an African kingdom ruled with a firm hand by the Denkyirahene or king. The kingdom was noted for its gold, kola, and terracotta statuary, but it also traded in slaves, captured in war and sold to the Portuguese._

 _Abenaa was the daughter of the Queen Mother and also sister to the young king, Ntim Gyakari. Because the kingship passed from uncle to nephew, young Abenaa would have been mother to the next king, if all had gone according to plan._

 _But one of King Ntim's subjects, Osei Tutu, was angered by the oppression and enslavement of his people, and he rebelled, finally defeating Ntim in battle. After having Ntim beheaded, Tutu declared himself king and moved the capital of the kingdom to his hometown of Kumase, but he continued to war with Ntim's old allies._

 _Under the protection of the sorcerer, Okomfo Anokye, Osei Tutu consolidated his power. Anokye created a Golden Stool, which embodied the power of kingship and would ever after be sought by anyone who would be king._

 _Tutu also spread the rumor that he had fathered Ntim by sleeping with his mother—Abenaa's mother and namesake—thereby making it seem that Ntim was not legitimate while Tutu could also claim to be the king's father. Angered by this lie, Abenaa swore that she would make herself a sorceress powerful enough to overcome Anokye's magic, which nevertheless protected Tutu from her vengeance for many years._

 _Finally, she broke Anokye's protection spell and Tutu was killed in battle. It is believed that D'Hofryn appeared to Abenaa at this time and offered to make her a vengeance demon. She accepted and has specialized in cursing the rebellious ever since._

Giles closed the book and looked at his audience. "So, we know who cast the spell," he said. "The trick now is to find the way to break it."

* * *

Angelus walked up the marble staircase to the third floor of the Sunnydale Public Library. There he found Faith, with her nose in a book, seated at a table upon which were strewn six or seven other books on English grammar and related topics.

"I have to admit, I'm surprised to find you in a library," said Angelus.

"You are shocked; I am the one who is surprised," said Faith, casually casting a glance at him over her shoulder before going back to her book.

"Are you correcting my grammar?" asked Angelus incredulously.

"No," said Faith patiently. "I'm correcting your word choice."

Angelus shook off the thought that the woman before him was not Faith at all, but a demon inhabiting her body or some grammar-obsessed shape-shifter mimicking Faith's appearance.

"Listen, Faith, are you still interested in slaying?"

"I am the one and only Slayer."

"Good, then, because I have some books that should interest the Slayer: the Books of Ascension."

"Oh, good," said Faith. "Everybody's talking about those books these days. Had a bead on them a week ago, but then the demon who offered them to me turned up dead. You don't have them here, do you?"

"Nah. They're at my place," said Angelus. "Bringing books to a library seemed redundant—and if that's the wrong word, don't correct me."

"I wasn't going to," said Faith. "Shall we go?"

"Faith, the proper diction is kinda creeping me out. Would you please talk normally for the rest of the evening?"

* * *

Faith walked into Angelus' darkened home with a modicum of wariness, but she dropped her guard when she found that all was still and silent.

"So, where are the books?" she asked.

"I'll go and get them," said Angelus. "You have a seat."

Faith flopped in an over-stuffed chair and sliced great arcs through the air as she crossed her legs.

Before he left the room, Angelus nodded toward the shadows behind Faith. Cordelia came forth and approached the back of Faith's chair.

The vampiress hovered over the Slayer. She began weaving her hands in figure-eight patterns around Faith's shoulders and head. Cordelia raised her sharpened talons above her own head, then plunged them down toward Faith. She placed her fingertips on either temple of Faith's head and began to massage her victim.

"Is that you Angel?" asked Faith.

"Shh," said Cordelia softly.

"That feels great," said Faith, closing her eyes and leaning back until her face was turned toward Cordelia's. Slowly she opened her eyes to find vampire eyes staring back at her.

Deep down, an alarm went off, and yet Faith paradoxically felt a frozen warmth—a paralysis not unlike that in the poem fragment on the chalkboard in Mr. Q's room:

"…As Freezing persons, recollect the snow—  
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—"

"Look into my eyes," said Cordelia. "There are depths as deep as deep wells where you can dive forever like a swan, and there you will be, deep in my eyes, deep in me."

"You're beautiful," murmured Faith.

"Yes," said Cordelia. "I know."

"I've missed you, Mom."

"Now, wait a minute," snapped Cordelia. "I'm not anyone's mother!"

"Huh?" said Faith groggily.

"Enough fun and games," said Angelus, kneeling in front of Faith and deftly putting ropes around her wrists.

He handed the ropes to Cordelia who threw the ends over a rafter and tied them to iron spikes that, earlier in the day, had been set into the floor at the corners of the room. Faith was hauled up off the floor by her wrists. Cordelia then moved the chair in which Faith had been sitting while Angelus put chains around each of Faith's ankles and secured the chains to spikes that had been concealed beneath the chair.

By the time Faith fully regained her awareness, she was suspended from the rafter, her arms and legs spread apart; she was helpless.

Faith spat at Angelus. "I never trusted you," she said to him.

"What can I say," said Angelus. "You were right."

"I don't know if you guys realize this, but kinky stuff doesn't exactly scare me," said Faith, appraising her situation. "I've been known to enjoy it."

Cordelia said, "Then we'll try not to make this any fun—for you."


	6. Chapter 6

In his office in the high school library the lights were dimmed as Giles prepared several bowls of dried leaves and magick dusts and set them on his desk. He burned some of the leaves in a cup and began reciting an invocation from the book on the easel before him.

"Oh, Abenaa! I beseech thee. Oh, protectress of overthrown and ill-treated rulers, scourge of unruly and rebellious subjects." He added magick dust to the fire and it flared up, brightly bathing the office for a moment in a red glow. "Come before me. Quickly. Now!"

Giles glanced to his left and right to see whether the invocation had worked, but he saw nothing. Then he suddenly felt a presence behind him. He turned and saw the figure of Abenaa approaching him from the library. She was even more terrible than her picture had suggested, her green mask hideous and her body emanating waves of wrath.

Giles realized that he had better meet her in the open rather than let her trap him in the confined space of the office. He boldly walked into the library; instantly, the whole room lit with a light that emanated solely from the demon herself.

"Do you summon me, mortal?" asked Abenaa.

"I humbly beg your assistance," said Giles.

"Assistance?" mused Abenaa. "Are there students who refuse to be silent in the library?"

"Well, yes… but that is not…" began Giles.

"No? Do you wish to make your charges—what are their names? Buffy and Faith?—do you wish me to make them obey your every command?"

"Well, Buffy isn't really in my charge anymore," Giles pondered out loud, "and while your offer with regard to Faith is tempting, I don't think it will be necessary…."

"Then you dare to summon me for some frivolous purpose?" Abenaa thundered. Her mask grew a deep, dark green—the color of some African glade where no light ever fell.

"Hardly frivolous, I think," said Giles. "You see, we believe that you have granted a wish recently to a Mr. Quillish."

"Ah, yes. Quillish: what a wonderful teacher he has become. You should all be proud of him."

"W-why, yes," said Giles. "I suppose we should, after some fashion; however, wouldn't it be better for all concerned to revoke that wish…."

"Revoke a wish?" cried Abenaa. "Do I restore rulers to their rightful place only to overthrow them myself?"

"Well," said Giles, "he is causing quite a stir, you know, with those unorthodox methods."

"Great rulers are entitled to be innovators," said the vengeance demon. "Are not his methods effective? Do not the students learn?"

"Well, I suppose…"

"There is no supposing," she stated. "His methods are sound."

"However, they were triggered through magick," Giles objected. "Not through Mr. Quillish's natural abilities."

"Nonsense!" said Abenaa. "My power had nothing to do with his methods. You are simply jealous because he is conquering other rulers' subjects."

"Subjects?" asked Giles. "Other rulers? Oh, you mean he's putting other teachers out of work. Well, isn't that a legitimate objection?"

"A ruler expands his domain. It is his prerogative," she declared.

No one but a fool would have contradicted her tone, and Giles was no fool. However, he needed to try something. Anything.

"Is there no offering that could persuade you to return Mr. Quillish to his previous condition?" asked Giles tentatively.

"No," said Abenaa, "But for your repetitious and insolent requests, I will exact from you your life." And like a wraith from hell she flew at him and clutched firmly around his neck with a single hand with long, steel-hard fingers.

"Abenaa!" called a voice that seemed to Giles to be coming from a thousand miles away as he felt consciousness ebb. "Abenaa!" The voice suddenly seemed to be in the same room. Giles swam to the surface of his awareness and found himself in the library again. Something had distracted Abenaa, and she had turned toward the door of the library. Giles sank heavily into the nearest chair.

"Another obnoxious mortal calls my name!" cried Abenaa. "Who are you?"

"I am Robin Wood," said the dark figure at the door. He stepped into the light of Abenaa's aura. "I am the vice-principal of this school—I am a prince of this kingdom."

"Ah," purred Abenaa. "So you are."

"This wish you have granted to one of my subordinates has upset the rule of my kingdom."

"How so?" asked Abenaa, showing a degree of concern.

"It is my prerogative and that of my superiors to say who shall teach whom and where, and when classes shall be convened; yet you have allowed Mr. Quillish, one of my underlings, to usurp the rightful authority of me and my superiors. For this reason, the spell must be undone."

"Oh," said Abenaa, genuinely worried now. "But D'Hofryn, _my_ ruler, will be angry if I revoke a vengeance spell."

"Would you rather undermine the authority of legitimate rulers?" asked Wood.

"I suppose not," sighed Abenaa.

* * *

"Here are the instruments for your torment," said Cordelia, sweeping her arms over the tray of forceps, pliers and aviation snips. "Is that what you mean?" she asked Angelus.

"Well, subtlety would work. I mean, these implements kinda sell themselves, if you know what I mean. There's no need to pose and make broad gestures like some bimbo presenter at a trade show," said Angelus.

Cordelia pouted. "Angelus, dear, you're supposed to be mean to her, not to me."

Oh, sorry," he said. He sidled up to Faith and stage whispered in her ear: "You'll have all of my attention soon enough." He picked up the aviation snips and cut along the side seam of her blouse, up to the arm pit and around the shoulder.

"Hey! My favorite shirt!" complained Faith.

"I'd be more concerned about what I'm gonna do to your favorite body parts," cooed Angelus. He tore her sleeve and rolled it up toward her wrist, as he simultaneously ran his fingers lightly down the inside of her arm and down her side which had been fully expose by the snips.

Faith reacted, giggling spasmodically, and tried to jerk away from his tickling, but her bonds were too tight for her to move sideways from him; she only succeeded in arching her back, and not very much at that.

"Ooh, baby's ticklish," said Angelus. "You want some of this, lover?"

"I want to start snipping things off," said Cordelia. "Not listen to her giggle like some simpering twit."

"Hey!" said Faith.

"See! She's not even getting the idea of who's in control."

"That's because you like to think you're in control," said Faith, "but you're just the Mayor's lackey whore. You're screwing him, aren't you?"

"Actually, life with Mayor Wilkins is a no-go on that front," said Cordelia. "All he thinks about is the Ascension. I'm supposed to be his right hand when that day comes—which might be really useful to him since I'm not sure he's gonna have any hands. Anyway, you might be lucky to die today if my picture of what's gonna happen is right; he's gonna gobble down this whole town."

"Doesn't sound like this Ascension will improve his table manners," said Faith, trying her best to ignore Angelus' continued attention as he removed her blouse and began caressing her neck with the cold metal snips.

"That's good, Angelus," said Cordelia. "I'm going to give puppy such a bite there."

"Well, I always said your bark is worse than you bite," said a female voice at the doorway to the room.

Cordelia turned and found herself face to face with Buffy who was dressed in a black leather costume almost identical to Cordelia's.

"You know how I hate fashion faux paux," said Cordelia. "One of us should go home and change."

"You mean Angel hasn't given you your own drawer to keep stuff here?" said Buffy. "Tsk-tsk, Angel."

"It's Angelus," he said, moving toward Buffy with the snips in his hand.

When he reached her, he took a swipe with the point of the tool, but Buffy backed into a fighting stance and then smoothly knocked the snips from Angelus' hand with a sweeping kick. Cordelia moved in, trying to outflank Buffy.

"Hey, Buffy," called Faith. "I realize you're kinda busy, but if you get a chance to free me up, I could help you. And, by the way, you look like you need help."

Angelus delivered a jump kick that sent Buffy sprawling backward. He then advanced, but Buffy got back control by tumbling out of his way and regaining her feet.

Angelus continued to move in, but Buffy counterpunched. He stumbled back two steps before stepping aside, seizing Buffy's arm, and pulling her through the opening.

Cordelia attacked Buffy and managed to land a punch before Buffy began showering her with counterblows that Cordelia barely managed to block. Buffy then forced Cordelia to back into a corner but had to break off because Angelus was coming up behind her.

Buffy turned to face Angelus, but he wasn't there. Suddenly a net fell on Buffy and she was tangled in an instant. In the next moment, the world turned upside down and she found herself suspended five feet above the floor.

"Gotcha!" cried Angelus.

Angelus and Cordelia worked quickly to tie Buffy up while she was still tangled in the net. It was as if they had practiced the maneuver all day.

Finally, the two vampires set up both of their victims in similar positions, spread-eagle and suspended from the same rafter. However, they had to move Faith and retie her bonds in order to do this.

"Now we have a real problem," said Angelus. "I don't know which one to torture first."

"Oh, I always want to play with the new Barbie doll," said Cordelia.

"What were you saying about identical outfits?" Angelus said to Cordy as he picked up the aviation snips and swiftly cut off Buffy's leather top. Then he replaced the snips carelessly on the tray with the other implements and went to the doorway where he picked up Faith's bag. He fished around until he found what he was looking for. "Let's see," he said. "The possibilities are so endless, but how do you think a Slayer-turned-vampire would like a taste of her own medicine?" He held up a bottle of holy water.

He opened it and tossed a few drops on Buffy's now bared skin. The liquid immediately turned to steam and smoke as vampire flesh dissolved and escaped into the ether. Buffy gritted her teeth but could not hold back a groan of pain.

"Here," said Angelus, handing Cordelia the bottle. "Pour some on her, and see how she likes it."

"No fun. She might enjoy that," said Cordelia.

"Keep your fantasies to yourself," said Buffy.

"I recall you had some fantasies of your own not long ago. Now it's payback."

Faith looked at the tray where Angelus had set the snips, and she felt her wrist slipping in the rope that held it. She strained to pull her hand through the bond while she tried not groan at her exertion, suppressing every gasp until she finally felt her hand move an inch, only to feel it catch again. She began again to strain while at the same time conceal her straining.

Faith was unable to cover the final little groan as she freed her left hand, but Buffy's scream happened to cover it up. Faith saw that Angelus and Cordelia were using an atomizer to spray holy water on Buffy's bared skin.

Angelus' back was to Faith, and Cordelia was intent on the task of spraying liquid and then running her hands over Buffy's arms.

"Don't touch!" said Angelus.

"Very strange," said Cordelia wonderingly. "I would have thought that this would burn her flesh a lot more than it does, but it just feels very hot."

"In an atomizer, the damage that stuff can do really sneaks up on you, lover," explained Angelus. He took the atomizer from her hand and set it on the table behind him without taking his eyes off of Cordelia. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Course not," said Cordelia. "I'm saving that for you to do." Then Cordelia's eyes widened.

"Where's the Slayer?"

Instinctively, Angelus first glanced toward Buffy but instantly realized that he had better follow Cordelia's gaze. He turned in time to have his face filled with an acid spray that turned his vision instantly to darkness. He put his hands to his face as he cried out in pain. A powerful force smashed into his ribs and sent him sprawling into the darkness where he crashed into something made of fabric, cotton filler, metal springs, and wood. He fell among splinters, and felt the vampire's terror that a suitably large enough splinter might penetrate his heart.

"We've practiced tying those knots for days," said Cordelia. "How did you ever escape?"

The Slayer, who held the emptied atomizer in one hand, now raised her other to show Cordelia the aviation snips. She opened and closed them twice to demonstrate how she had cut her other bonds once she had gotten one hand free.

Cordelia came at Faith with a banshee scream. Faith stabbed Cordelia in the heart with the snips, but, of course, the spiraled metal scissors merely gave the vampire pause. It was enough time for Faith to deliver a kick and then pummel Cordelia with a half-dozen punches.

Angelus crawled across the floor away from the fight. He felt the floor with one hand and waved the other in front of him to meet any obstacle he might encounter.

Faith maneuvered the fight to where Angelus had fallen into and smashed the over-stuffed chair; the Slayer snatched up a broken chair leg and moved in for the kill. Cordelia recovered enough to put space between herself and Faith, and she struck a fighting posture.

"Don't slay her yet!" called Buffy.

Cordelia turned to Buffy and smiled. "I knew you were craving my attentions; don't worry: I'll get back to you soon." Cordelia blew Buffy a kiss before she turned back toward Faith just in time to block a thrust of the stake and then to block every thrust, punch and kick Faith mustered after that.

But Faith was relentless, and Cordelia was unable to lay a finger on her without immediately needing to duck or dodge the thrust of the pointed chair leg.

"Angelus!" she cried. "I'm gonna get you out of here!"

"Faith!" called Angelus. "Don't slay Cordelia!"

"Oh, right," said Faith, puffing to catch her breath. "I'm in a generous mood after what you guys tried to do to me. I promise you this: I'll give her more of a chance than you gave me."

"No," said Buffy. "Listen to Angel."

"You mean Angelus, don't you?" said Faith. "Anyway, if you people don't shut up, I'm going over and slay Angelus before Queen C here, seeing as he's the easier target."

"Faith, Angel is not evil. He was faking it," said Buffy desperately.

"Why don't I believe you?" asked Faith.

"Because you're gullible?" suggested Buffy.

"Buffy, don't antagonize her just now," pleaded Angel, waving his hands before him, searching for something to grasp.

"Angelus is really still Angel?" said Cordelia, her large eyes staring far away.

Faith began to catch on. "You two—Angel and Buffy—have been in on this whole thing all along?"

"And to think I was almost willing to give my life to save you from the Slayer," said Cordelia to Angel.

"Almost?" asked Buffy.

"Faith! You've got to take her alive," Angel said.

"I don't think so," said Cordelia.

"That works for me," replied Faith with another thrust of the stake.

Cordelia parried and attacked Faith with renewed zeal, born of fury. But even this was soon spent as she kept turning her attention to Angel, who was now sitting in a corner. "I thought I really gave you enough pleasure to turn you into Angelus," she said.

"Had you been the real Cordelia—who knows?—you might have had a chance," said Angel. "As vampire Cordelia? Don't be deluded."

A tear formed and fell from one of Cordelia's eyes, but self-preservation kicked in just in time for her to dodge Faith's stake. The two adversaries traded blows and feints for several seconds, but Cordelia was coming closer and closer to being staked with each thrust of Faith's wood.

Cordelia jumped onto the back of the dresser where Angel kept Druscilla's collection of handkerchiefs. Executing a back-bend that she had not tried since she had been a cheerleader, Cordelia reached behind her to grab the knobs of the drawer and then back-flipped off of the dresser, putting it between herself and Faith. Almost continuing the same motion, she stepped backward and pulled out the drawer. As Faith leaped over the dresser to pounce on the vampiress, Cordelia hit her with the drawer.

Dozens and dozens of handkerchiefs filled the air like a snowstorm of linen and lace. Cordelia was surprised to realize that the drawer contained not only a number of the black-bordered handkerchiefs but others of every description and even several different colors and sizes, although white predominated.

Faith fell to the floor, tangled in cloth, but she rolled away from Cordelia and leaped to her feet. As she regained her bearings, she turned from side to side, looking to see where the next attack would come from, but Cordelia was nowhere to be seen.

"She went out the door," said Buffy. "She got away!"

Faith went to a window, tore aside the heavy curtain, and looked out onto the street. Cordelia was halfway down the block; Faith saw her just as the vampiress stepped beneath a street lamp, pausing long enough to glance over her shoulder. Faith felt as if Cordelia was looking straight at her, but she realized that it was possible that Cordelia was only looking ruefully at the house itself.

"Would you mind undoing these ropes and chains?" said Buffy.

"Sure, B," replied Faith. She crossed the room and began undoing the knots, but she found them rather difficult. "What was the plan, anyway?" Faith asked.

"We were trying to trick Cordy into telling us the Mayor's plans—before you chased her off."

"Not my fault. You guys should have told me the plan." Faith began freeing Buffy but stopped suddenly. "Wait a minute. The atomizer. What was really in that?"

"I was never a whiz at chemistry," said Buffy. "Willow said it's a solution with a little sulfuric acid mixed in. Not something a human should try, and I can tell you it does hurt, but it can't cause any permanent damage to a vampire, although Will did warn us not to get it in our eyes. She thought it might cause temporary blindness."

"Wait a minute, again," said Faith. She stopped untying Buffy, stepped back, and placed her hands on her hips. "You mean to tell me that Red was in on this, but I was out of the loop?"

"Giles and I were going to tell you," Buffy explained, "but when you fell under the influence of Mr. Q, we agreed that we couldn't be sure about you."

"I'm not under anyone's influence!" protested Faith. "But since you guys have everything under control, I do have a term paper to finish by Monday." She began to walk away.

"Ahem," said Buffy.

"What?" asked Faith.

"You were about to untie me?"

"You didn't free me; why should I free you?" pouted Faith. "Besides, Angel can do it."

"I'm temporarily blind," said Angel as he bumped his knee on a table that Cordelia had moved to an unfamiliar place.

"Aw, you could probably feel your way through Buffy's ropes and chains," suggested Faith. She picked up a stapler from the tray of instruments and shivered as she contemplated it. She glanced sidelong at Angel.

"He _could_ untie me," admitted Buffy, "but it would be easier if you did it."

"But probably not as much fun," said Faith as she stapled the seam of her ruined blouse and then pulled it on. She looked at Angel and shook her head, then left.


	7. Chapter 7

Quillish knocked softly on the door to Wood's office.

"Come in," said Wood.

"Thanks," said Quillish taking a chair in front of the vice-principal's desk.

Wood finished writing in the folder he was working on and then closed it.

"So, I understand you are leaving us."

"Yes," said Quillish. He winced at some memory. "I apologize for messing up your curriculum—and for leaving before Mrs. Bates returns from her sick leave."

"That's all right," said Wood. "Are you sure you don't want to give teaching another shot? Not here, of course, but perhaps you could move to some other school district."

"No, I think I've learned my lesson," said Quillish.

"As teachers often do," said Wood.

"Hmm?"

"Look, in spite of everything, I'll be glad to give you a recommendation," said Wood.

"Really?"

"Yes, I think that you have an untapped talent for initiative and organization. That idea about organizing the students into study groups genuinely came from you, didn't it?"

"I believe it did," said Quillish.

"Do you know what you are going to do now?"

"Not in the long run, but tomorrow I have a job interview."

"Really? What kind of a job?" asked Wood.

"They're hiring a new bartender at a place called Willy's."

"Hmm. Ever been there?"

"Funny, but it's one of the few bars in town I've never been in," mused Quillish.

"Well, I can't say it's the happiest match for you," said Wood.

"You think I should stick with teaching?"

"I didn't say that," Wood hastened to say. "But while you're working the bar, just remember what Al Pacino said in the movie, 'Scarface'."

"What?" asked Quillish.

"'Don't get high on the supply.'"

* * *

The Bronze was somber that evening despite a fair crowd. According to the board outside, the performer was named Cat Herrmann. She sang her sad ballad, "Beggar's Song."

Faith and Buffy sat together in a corner drinking café mochas. Buffy was treating, and Faith had ordered a scone, but now she only picked at it.

"I'm sorry we left you out of the loop," said Buffy.

"Why don't you speak for yourself? _You_ left me out," said Faith. "Even though you aren't a Slayer anymore, I thought we could trust each other enough to tell the truth."

"I'm sorry," said Buffy. "I should've stuck up for you."

"But you didn't trust me yourself," accused Faith.

Across town, Cordelia lay on the bed in her apartment. She stared into space.

All around Cordelia, vampires packed her wardrobe and carried boxes out of the door as the Mayor supervised. For a moment, Wilkins paused to gaze with avuncular concern toward Cordelia who sighed deeply, a habit of love not easily broken even after becoming a vampire.

"Well, you have to admit you were acting pretty weird this past week," Buffy said to Faith.

"In what way?" demanded Faith.

"You? Studying like it was more important than Slaying?"

"It could happen."

"Still," said Buffy, "I should have listened to what you had to say instead of making the decision for you."

And Buffy and Faith shook hands on their renewed pact.

* * *

Meanwhile, across town, Cordelia's back was turned toward Wilkins so that he did not see tears silently flowing from her eyes. Another human reaction to loss that is not easily given up.

* * *

At the Bronze, the audience applauded. Buffy and Faith joined in.

"Do you need to go to the library?" asked Buffy.

"I no longer have the urge," said Faith, shocked to hear herself say so. "Whadya say we go home and watch Letterman?"

* * *

"So who's evil this week?" asked Joyce.

"Huh?" said Buffy. She and Faith were watching a commercial between segments of _The Late Show._

"Well, it seems like I'm always being friendly toward the wrong people because you never give me the scorecard for the week. Angel was evil, and then he was good; the other night he was good but he was pretending to be evil. Cordelia used to be a friend…"

"She was never a friend," said Buffy.

"I hardly even knew her," added Faith.

"But she wasn't evil," said Joyce. "Now she is."

"Well, I thought you might get that—since she was missing and presumed dead—if she showed up at the door, you'd think twice before inviting her in," said Buffy.

"Good point," said Joyce who then hesitated and furrowed her brow.

"Is there something else bothering you, Mom?"

Joyce sighed and said, "When you came into the kitchen the other day and I said there was nothing specific bothering me, I lied; there was something specific." She showed Buffy the acceptance letter from Northwestern.

"Wow! I got accepted!" shouted Buffy, jumping out of her chair. "Look, Faith, I got accepted." She waived the letter in front of the Slayer until she took the time to examine it.

"Good goin', B.," said Faith politely, before turning her attention back to a TV commercial.

Buffy suddenly stopped jumping up and down and looked at her mother. "Now, tell me exactly why this doesn't make you happy?"

"Oh, honey, I am pleased—and very proud," said Joyce, "but, Buffy, you can't go to college. You're a vampire; they probably have a rule against it or a policy or something."

"Oh, Mom, they don't have to know I'm a vampire," said Buffy. "I mean, they're a big university; I'll bet they have night classes and everything."

There was a knock at the door.

"Who the hell could that be at this time of night?" asked Faith.

"Don't say 'hell', dear," said Joyce.

"I'll get it," said Buffy starting for the door.

"Excuse my language, Joyce," said Faith contritely.

"Oh, I don't object to a little language, dear," said Joyce. "It's just that, in this town, it might actually be someone from you-know-where."

Buffy opened the door. It was Allan Finch.

"Do you mind if I come in?" he asked desperately.

"Oh, hey," said Faith.

"You know this guy?" asked Buffy.

"Know him! I almost staked him the other night when I was coming home from the library; he came up on me out of nowhere."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," said Finch pushing his way into the house.

"So, have you got those papers you were going to bring over?" asked Faith.

"I think I've done better than that," Finch said. "Out in my car I've got a full set of the Books of Ascension."

* * *

It's come to this, thought Faith as she raced through the corridors of Sunnydale High. The Mayor, in his gargantuan, pure-demon form, slithered behind her with astonishing rapidity. She dashed through double doors that closed and locked behind her, and then turned down another corridor toward the library. It was risky, but she and Giles had carefully choreographed her run, making sure that there would be minimal obstacles for her and maximal obstacles for him—or it, or whatever the Mayor was now.

Come on, Dick, she muttered to herself. Don't fall behind. Just then, there was a loud crash, and Faith noticed from the corner of her eye that the enormous dragon-like head of the Mayor's new body had knocked an opening through a wall and was moving like a locomotive along a track parallel to Faith's.

Almost to the library, thought Faith. When she hit the double doors of the library, they made a resounding boom. She did not pause but leaped over the pile of dynamite crates, grasped and swung herself over the balustrade, and disappeared headlong into the rear stacks.

Entering the library, Richard Wilkins III—who was, in truth, the same individual as Richards I and II, the former having been born in Ohio in 1824 and introduced to the black arts on board a ship en route to California in 1849—had to pause to get his bearings. He scanned the library, but that vile girl was nowhere in sight. In the split instant before he saw the dynamite, all of the thoughts he had recently experienced flashed through his elevated consciousness. The dusting of his beloved vampire Cordelia at the hands of the Slayer, the resulting fury that had driven him through his oration at the commencement ceremony, the eclipse of the sun that inaugurated his change into the demon he had now become; then Faith taunting him with the gift he had given Cordelia. Who had invited her, an underclassman, to graduation anyway? The Slayer had not had the courage to face him; instead she ran into the school, a cowardly ploy but frustrating: leading him on an unmerry chase that only infuriated him more. Then he spied the crates of explosives.

"Well, gosh," the Mayor said.

In the next moment, the library and the Mayor's head and then the entire school exploded. Outdoors, Faith and Giles fell to the ground where Giles had pushed the plunger, having set off the fuse once he saw that Faith was clear. They covered their ears against the deafening sound that accompanied the sky-high ball of fire spreading over the grounds of what had been their school. The earth shook. Even a block away, on the other side of campus, where a battle raged between vampires and high school students, everyone had to steady him or herself even to the point of enemies clutching at each other for stability. Vice principal Wood was fortunate to be able to use this moment to extricate himself from almost certain death as two vampires had been attacking him together. He staked one that had been knocked off balance by the manmade quake; then he turned to face the other vampire and slew him easily.

Wesley Windham Pryce lay prostrate in the midst of the battle. "Any help at all would be appreciated," he moaned. A blonde vampiress leaned over him and spoke soothingly.

"Now just let Harmony take all of your pain away."

"Not likely, bitch," said Buffy, her game face on as she literally kicked Harmony's butt and launched her over and beyond Wesley's head. Buffy picked Wesley up, slung the watcher over her shoulder, and carried him away from the battle. He groaned and gasped but was unable to complain intelligibly. Buffy put him down with his back to a wall and handed him a stake. "Think you can use this if you have to?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," he replied slowly, wincingly. But Buffy returned to the fray before he had uttered the last word.

When the battle was over, the vampires as well as the Mayor had lost. Their plan had depended on the coordination of the former chief executive of Sunnydale and his army of vampires in order to succeed, and Xander's strategy had helped to separate the two, ultimately squeezing the vampires between two masses attacking from behind and in front simultaneously. It reminded Giles of something he had read—as almost everything did. He thought that Hannibal and Alexander the Great would have been proud of Xander even if the boy could identify neither great military leader—and yet the school board, in its wisdom, had seen fit to award this young man with a diploma. Giles looked down and saw that very diploma with the full name on it—Alexander LaVelle Harris—sticking out from under the rubble on the steps leading to what had been the school. The place where they had researched and planned against the powers of evil and darkness for three long years—where they struggled and some had died.

* * *

It was now night. The fire department had put out the fire, though too late to save anything. As paramedics put him into one of the ambulances, Wesley was heard to complain with annoying politeness. Hearses removed those who could no longer complain. Vice principal Wood led a party in surreptitiously performing the grim but necessary task of staking and beheading those who had been bitten and might yet turn if they had had time to drink blood.

Buffy glanced anxiously about for sight of Angel. Her eyes found and rested upon his distant frame. He stood still as if staring at her for one last time. Then something passed in front of him, and when it was gone, so was he.

Giles found the Scoobies huddled together: Willow, Xander, and Oz. "I found something that belongs to you," he said. "I don't know whether or not you want it, but each of you certainly deserves it." He solemnly gave a badly singed diploma to Willow, then one to Xander, and finally handed half a diploma to Oz; it just said "—iel Osbourne."

"Crispy," observed Oz. "But appreciated."

"This means more coming from you than from anyone else," said Willow, choking out the words. A tear escaped an eye as she clutched her diploma with both hands.

"I don't really deserve this," said Xander. "It'll have to do as a consolation prize."

"Nonsense," said Giles. "All of you deserve your diplomas. You've given the full measure these past several years. It hasn't always been in class, but what you've done outside of class has counted for a great deal. If no official honor can be bestowed upon you, then your diplomas will have to suffice. To you, especially, Xander, I want to say that today, I think you acquitted yourself… ah, pretty well."

"Say, I'll take faint praise from you over effusiveness from anyone else," said Xander with rare solemnity, though Giles could not help detecting that characteristic insolence that seemed best described as Xanderesque.

"I don't suppose you have anything there for me," said a voice from behind Giles.

The watcher turned and gazed into Faith's eyes. He wondered how long she had been standing there, watching the impromptu ceremony, and his heart sank. He had no award to give her. Faith had barely managed to complete the junior year—one year short of graduating from high school. Her formal education had been interrupted just as it had barely begun. It was a dismal fact that no Slayer had ever completed high school or its equivalent. Some had been privately tutored which had given them fairly good backgrounds, but none had ever had the opportunity to attend a university that a diploma from the secondary level could afford.

"I'm sorry, Faith," he said. "Perhaps you will be able to attend school in one of the neighboring districts; that's what I imagine that the other juniors who survived today are going to do. I understand that they have a rather fine progressive school in Ojai.

"Don't worry about it," said Faith nonchalantly. "Maybe I'll just get a GED like Buffy did."

"Somebody mention my name?" asked Buffy, approaching her friends.

"Faith was just contemplating following in your academic footsteps," said Giles. "By the way, congratulations on your GED. I daresay you might be the first vampire to earn such a degree."

"It was a snap," said Buffy to Faith. "It helps to take night classes, but I had that covered."

"Hello? Slayer, remember?" said Faith thumbing her own chest. "Kinda busy nights."

"But, really," said Buffy, "all you have to do is study at home and then take the exams: instant high school diploma."

"Something to think about," said Giles. "You won't be going anywhere straight away, will you?" he asked Faith.

"I'm kinda too dazed to decide on where to go or what to do."

"I imagine you are. I'll be right back," said Giles. "May I have a word?" he asked Buffy.

"Have a sentence, even," Buffy said.

"I shall miss your drollery."

"Let's step into my office," said Buffy, leading him a few feet away from the gang. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to see how you are doing. Ah, Angel… I don't suppose you know whether he…."

"Survived the fight? Yeah, he showed up as the smoke of battle dissipated and then did his mysterious-guy-disappearing act. I'm OK with it—as OK as I'll ever be; so don't worry."

"'Dissipated'. That's a good word for you."

"GED, remember?"

"Right. Speaking of education, have you made any plans in that regard?"

"Northwestern has accepted me. As long as they don't find out that I'm technically dead, it looks like I'll be matriculating in the Windy City come next fall."

"And your mother knows?"

"She knows, and I'd say you could color her proud. Proud and safe since Faith and I put her on the bus to Palm Springs last night."

"I just know that she will miss you; she won't admit to you that she does, but…."

"That's why I'm depending on you to take good care of her," said Buffy, lowering her brow and sternly peering up at her former watcher.

"I beg your pardon?" he replied.

"Yeah, once I'm gone, you two won't have to have smoochies _sub rosa_ anymore."

"Sub…?" Giles began, finding it difficult to become accustomed to Buffy's forced integration of her examination vocabulary into her otherwise still slang-ridden speech. "How did you know?"

"Pul-ease," she said, rolling her eyes. "Vampire hearing. Besides, even if I didn't have super hearing, it's still kind of obvious. That's my mom you've fallen in love with."

"Well, I don't know that I've used the word… love, exactly," said Giles. Then he smiled sheepishly and his eyes twinkled. "Imagine it happening to an old bachelor like me."

"You'll be great together."

"I admit we've both been worried about your approval."

"Hey, if Faith is cool about it—since she's the one who has to live with you two love birds—then so am I."

"Faith knows?"

"Knows what?" asked Faith, coming up beside Buffy. The Slayer wrapped both arms around the former Slayer's right arm and leaned affectionately against her.

"Giles still thinks everybody doesn't know about him and Mom," explained Buffy.

"Oh, that," said Faith casually.

"And you are equally sanguine about this?" asked Giles.

"If that means, am I cool with it, hell yeah," said Faith.

"Sanguine's a funny word," Buffy explained. "It sorta means 'accepting' but it also means 'bloody.'"

"Then I'll grant you the first meaning, not the second," Faith assured Giles. "What a relief! I've been gettin' wicked tired of pretending I don't notice."

"When are you popping the question?" asked Buffy.

"Hold on!" said Giles. "We've just gotten past filial approval; we have to take a step at a time."

"Well, all right," replied Buffy. "But don't think I'll tolerate you having illicit relations with my mother forever."

"Hey, I'm not even her daughter, and that's gross to me!" Faith protested.

"I assure you that my intentions are honorable," said Giles. "I'm just not sure that your mother is ready to consent."

"We'll work on her then," said Faith. "Won't we Buffy?"

But Buffy was looking over at Willow, Xander, and Oz. She had not been paying attention to what they had been saying, but, up until moments ago, she had been unconsciously taking comfort in the sounds of their good-natured banter. Suddenly they had become utterly silent, and she had wondered why. They looked solemn, and Buffy thought that they were observing a moment of silence.

"And we're done," said Oz. The gang got up and began walking away.

"Are you coming, Faith?" asked Willow over her shoulder.

"Just a sec," called Faith. "Well, I'll see you guys at home," she told Giles and Buffy. "I'm gonna spend a little time unwinding with the Scoobs. Then I might have a look around town to see if there are any vamps still skulkin' around. If I do, I'll ask 'em what part of gettin' their asses whupped they didn't understand."

"Aren't you exhausted?" asked Giles.

"A little," allowed Faith, "but I feel my second wind comin' on."

"Well, before you go," said Giles. "I just wanted to tell you that you've done extremely well over the past several weeks. You were presented with a difficult challenge and you came through with flying colors. I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks," said Faith.

"I hope you appreciate that this guy doesn't give compliments easily—or practically ever," said Buffy. "I'm jealous."

Faith grinned, then hugged Buffy. Still smiling, she turned and walked away. Buffy almost thought that the Slayer skipped away. Suddenly, Faith seemed like a very young girl, and Buffy felt ancient.

"Are you sure that you don't want to 'unwind'—as Faith put it—with the others?" Giles asked.

"No, I'll see them again before I leave town. This night is theirs."

"It's yours, as well," said Giles.

"Every night will be mine for as long as I exist," said Buffy. She had never been to Chicago, and she tried to imagine the big city with its skyscrapers and frigid winter weather. To a vampire, the cold outside is nothing. She imagined that the more northerly clime would be less of an insult than the warm California sun that she could never enjoy.

"Let's go home," she said finally. "We need to call Mom at her hotel; I know she'll be anxious to hear from us both."

THE END


End file.
